


The Abyss Gazes Back

by Water_of_life



Category: Supernatural, The Abyss (1989)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Canon until 14.12, Deep Core (The Abyss), Heaven (supernatural), James Cameron pseudo-science, Man of Letters Sam Winchester, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Michael Possessing Dean Winchester, Minor Character Death, Profanity, Time Jump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2019-10-27 19:45:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17773094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Water_of_life/pseuds/Water_of_life
Summary: Dean was able to convince Sam to go along with his plan of locking himself and Michael away in the ma'lak box and dumping it in the Pacific Ocean. Sam gave in to Dean then, but he never gave up searching for another way to save both Dean and the rest of the world from Michael. Now that a group of deep sea researchers have stumbled upon the box, Sam is about to find out if he put the reprieve Dean bought the world to good use, and if they are all ready to face what is coming.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is heavy on The Abyss homage/easter eggs in the beginning, but leans more towards SPN as it gets going.
> 
> This first chapter functions as more a long prologue or cold opening.

The man strode down the lighted passageway into the galley. The extra effort it took him to stoop a little and step a little higher to clear the lip of the bulkhead door was completely unconscious on his part. He was dark skinned and tall, with close-cropped greying hair and a matching beard. The room he entered was filled with stainless steel covered cabinets, counters and tables and the polished surfaces contrasted sharply against black floors, rough with a texturized non-slip finish. 

The chit chat of the already assembled group quieted. A few drank coffee. All were more or less dressed in the same uniform of grey coveralls. Some wore their coveralls partly unzipped or rolled down with sleeves belted around waists to reveal t-shirts underneath, mostly depicting rock bands or commemorating research voyages. One large man with a bushy red beard and grease-stained coveralls had a large Tweety Bird image peeking out from where his partially zipped coveralls stretched open across his barrel chest. On those who wore their uniform properly zipped up was visible a name embroidered across the left breast and a circular patch on the right. The patch had a central image of a squid encircled with the text “Deep Sea Biodiversity Survey” below and “Weyland Corp.” above. The latest arrival, Dr. Lawrence Brigman his chest announced, joined the rag tag group seated around the galley’s biggest dining-cum-conference table and looked round with an air of calm authority.

He spoke in a rich baritone voice with the slightest hint of a burr, “Okay, easy things first. Serge, what’s the status of the RO system? We got the primary up and running again yet?”

The man in the Tweety Bird shirt responded, “Yeah. New membranes sent down from Topside did the trick. Up and running since this morning. Gonna start routine maintenance and filter replacement on the backup system tomorrow.”

“Great. Otherwise, basic support and auxiliary systems looking good?”

“Yup.”

“Good. Kay?” He turned to a pale woman with a head of short brown curls seated a few places to his right. “Bio team doing well? On schedule?”

The woman gave a quick confirmatory glance round at her bench mates, noticeably less greasy than their companions opposite, before responding in a clipped English accent. “Yes, we’re good. Latest batch of samples from Sectors 4.19 and 4.20 are ready to go up on the next trip. Lab supplies are fine for now.”

“Good.” His dark eyes smiled briefly at her before turning back to the rest of the group.

“Anyone else have anything non-routine to report?” At the eager twitch of a thin greasy-haired man with a white rat on his shoulder, Lawrence shook his head. “We’ll save Survey ‘til the end. Anybody else?” No response. “Okay,” He nodded towards the man with the rodent. “Hippy here tells me we’ve now lost Big Geek. Same general vicinity as Little Geek.” Surprised looks were exchanged, murmurs. Dr. Brigman lifted his hand for quiet and raised his deep voice to boom over them until they fell silent. “Whatever knocked out Little Geek was obviously not a fluke.”

He gestured to Hippy who pulled out a tablet and slid it to the middle of the table. The tablet displayed a gridded bathymetric map of the ocean floor with two small bright red dots close to each other near one corner and one larger green icon located at the edge furthest from the red dots.

“Right. Here we are,” Lawrence pointed to the green icon. “And here,” red dots, “are the Geeks. They’re located approximately 10 klicks south-south-west of us.” He slid his fingers across the tablet surface causing the 3-D map image to tilt and better display the floor features.” On the far side of that small plateau in Sector 6.4, here.”

“Both ROVs suddenly lost power. All systems reported error messages simultaneously. Only readings we are currently getting from them now are the GPS beacons. Hippy and I reviewed the last images we received from Big Geek before it went down.” He gestured to Hippy who minimized the map and opened up a folder full of photo icons.

“The weird one,” Lawrence commanded and Hippy tapped on an icon. A grainy black and white photo of the ocean floor popped up on the screen. Lawrence zoomed in to one region of the photo. The fuzzy image showed an object partially obscured by a rocky outcrop. In contrast to the undulating silt beds or jagged rocks around it, what was visible had a perfectly flat top and sides and squared corners.

“No way that is natural!” exclaimed a scruffy young man seated to Kay’s right.

“It must be abandoned scrap, right? From an oil exploration team? Could it be a ship wreck perhaps?” asked a blond woman on the far side of the table.

Lawrence shook his head, “Right now we have no idea. And we don’t know if it has anything to do with whatever phenomena zapped the Geeks.”

“What could have shorted them out like that?” Kay asked Hippy.

“Who knows? Magnetic field? EMP? Severe radiation…” he trailed off as a look of horror stole across his face. “What if that damn thing is nuclear?! Like some decrepit Russian sub wreck! You know the navy would never bother to…” Lawrence cut Hippy off sharply before he could start one of his trademark, conspiratorial rants.

“It’s not radioactive,” He stated firmly. “Little Geek’s radiation readings were normal before it went down. The mineralogical maps we inherited from the Weyland oil and gas crews indicate no radioactive or otherwise unusual deposits anywhere in the vicinity. There is no gamma out there, natural” he turned to Hippy, “or otherwise.”

Lawrence steered the discussion back on track, “We’ve got to get the Geeks back. I will being going in Bert to retrieve them, with Raj as backup in Big Bird.”

“And if Bert fritzes out too? You gonna swim all the way back here?” Serge asked.

“Bert will be tethered to Big Bird. Raj will hang back far enough to be out of range of anything that might knock out Bert. Bert goes haywire, I get out, retrieve the Geeks by hand if I can, then swim back to Big Bird. Raj can tow Bert back, all the way to DeepCore, if necessary.”

“And if something goes wrong with Big Bird? We don’t really know why the Geeks went down. Maybe he’ll be safe at a distance, maybe not,” Kay objected.

Lawrence shrugged. “We’ll still have Ernie. We’ll figure something out. The Geeks are on loan. We don’t get them back to the OET, we can kiss any future collaboration or funding goodbye.”

~~~~~

Exterior flood lights shone up through the moon pool and cast a rippling blue glow on the figures gathered in DeepCore’s diving bay. Kay was inside the HOV they had nicknamed Bert. She opened and closed all the dive tanks, checking the fill level on their pressure gauges. She ran her fingers over the rubber hoses and fittings hunting for leaks, did a visual check of the gasket seals at the base of the dive helmet. She tested that the brackets holding the tanks to the wall were secured but could be opened with ease. At last satisfied that all was ready if needed, she turned and gave a quick scan to the rest of the personnel sphere, the pilot chair with its thrust and buoyancy controls, and the myriad of gauges, switches and screens that filled every inch of open hull space surrounding the large main viewing port. Larry had already done his systems safety check and she wouldn’t second guess him on that. She was a marine biologist, not an engineer. She climbed back up the metal rungs mounted on the inside hull of the submersible.

Larry looked up from the deck near the moon pool where he and Raj were pulling on their insulated dive suits. He caught Kay sneaking out the top hatch of the HOV and rolled his eyes at her, but her toothy grin in response was unapologetic. She came forward to help him zip up his suit and adjusted his neck fittings without speaking. She stepped back, but followed him back up the HOV’s side ladder and held his arm to counter balance his weight as he swung his leg over and into the hatch. She gave his hand one last squeeze before he moved further down into the HOV. She was not nervous. They were both old hands at this now. There was a reason he was running DeepCore and the survey. He was as steady as a rock and there was no one she trusted more in an emergency. She flipped the hatch door closed, dogged it tight and gave it few hard bangs with the side of her fist. All sealed up and ready to go.

~~~~~

Lawrence navigated the submersible through the water, hovering well above the ocean floor. At their present depth of 1000 meters, life was not bountiful, but they had lucked out at this location and been able to collect a surprising number of mesopelagic and bathypelagic organisms. Right now all he could see were plentiful small clumps of plankton, silt and assorted gunk as they slid past his viewing port. He steered towards the GPS location of Big Geek. Eventually he drew nearer his target and slowed, peering into the gloom for some glimpse of the ROVs. He spied Little Geek lying on the silty bottom and further ahead, closer to some rocks lay Big Geek. Beyond that he could make out the sharp corner of their mystery object.

Alarms started flashing red. Obnoxiously loud buzzers rang out from all around. The batttery power gauge was dropping swiftly and steadily. In fact, all the gauges were falling, in perfect synchronization.

“Shit!” He put Bert in full reverse as fast as he could, pulling the stick so far back it bottomed out against the panel.

“--arry! Larry! Do you copy?! We lost visual. Please respond. Repeat, please respond. Larry? Do you copy?” Kay’s worried voice suddenly jumped into his ear.

“Lawrence, here. I’m okay.” But his breathing was fast and he could feel the swift pounding of pumping blood reverberating through his skull. He took a deep breath to calm himself. Another. His pulse slowed, marginally.

“Raj, you okay back there? I experienced a massive power drain for a second there. And my radio cut out.”

“Me and Big Bird are just fine. I’ve come to a halt approximately 50 meters behind you.” Came Raj’s unruffled voice in his ear.

“Okay. Stay there for now. Resuming forward movement.”

“Take it easy, Larry…”. In spite of her words, Kays voice was calm again.

“Sure thing.”

 _Okay,_ deep breath, _easy does it, easy does it._

He tilted the accelerator control forward a few degrees, creeping the HOV forward as slow as possible, his eyes glued to his battery gauge. He was afraid to blink. His eyes burned. The instant he saw the slightest tremble in the gauge, he pulled back on the accelerator stick and brought the vehicle to a halt again. He closed his eyelids a moment to moisten his eyes, then, squinting out through the forward view port, he scanned the distance between himself and the object.

“Look…ok, looks like whatever that thing is, if it’s causing this, it’s limited to an impact radius of about… 10 meters or so? Do you copy? Audio? Visual? You getting any of this?”

“Yeah, boss. I’ve got your camera signal coming through nice and clear.” Hippy’s voice chirped in his headphones.

“Okay, I can’t bring Bert in any closer than this. I can see the Geeks. Looks like I’m going to have to get wet. Raj, come in a little closer so you’ve got eyes on me while I’m outside.”

“Roger that. Here I come.”

Lawrence set Bert down on the silt bed below. He reached for his breathing apparatus on the wall and opened the tanks, checking that air was flowing. Then he secured his helmet and taking a deep confirmatory breath, he examined a gauge on the hull. The pressure inside Bert was perfectly equilibrated with the outside. He bent down and opened the hatch on the floor of the submersible. The water visible through the round opening was illuminated by Bert’s exterior lights but still inky. He slipped down into the dark water. Although his suit prevented his body from getting hypothermia, it was still damned cold. He slipped through the support rigging on the bottom of the submersible and out onto the ocean floor. His weight belt kept him firmly on the bottom and his helmet lights put out a bright cone of illumination in front of him.

“Okay, I am outside Bert. Moving forward now. I could lose radio contact at any time. Standby.”

“Copy that. Standing by. Be careful.”

He moved slowly through the chill water, each step stirring up small clouds of silt around his lower legs. He had gone as little as 2 meters from Bert when his helmet lights suddenly went out.

 _Shit! I guess I should have anticipated that._ The darkness around him suddenly felt much closer, but he could still see his surroundings by the strong lights of the HOV behind him. He reached upwards on his chest to where several glow sticks were secured to his suit. He pulled one loose, cracked it to release the chemicals and gave it a thorough shake.  The light it gave off was a sickly green but bright and dispelled the shadow his body had cast over his path. He attached the stick to a clip on his waist and checked his radio. Dead.

Little Geek was visible a bit to his right and several meters beyond and closer to the object lay Big Geek. _Probably had more momentum when its motors went._ They both looked fine. He would collect them and drag them back to Bert, but first he was curious. He gazed back at Bert’s lights, and further back the lights of Big Bird. He wasn’t alone. He made hand signals for “okay” and “going that way” that Raj could hopefully make out on his video feed and moved towards the peculiar silhouette several meters further ahead.

As he drew closer, it was clearly made of metal, but oddly there were no signs of the plentiful corrosion layers he would expect on metal that had been on the bottom of the ocean a long time. In fact, up close Lawrence could see that the surface was miraculously free of silt and covered in large convoluted symbols.

 _It's too damn clean for the bottom of the fucking ocean!_ “What the hell is this thing?” he wondered out loud. Nobody was listening, of course. His radio remained silent.

It was generally shaped like a rectangular box, but the top was actually six-sided, not four. For the life of him, the best description he could think of was it looked like a god-damned coffin. He hesitated a moment, then cautiously reached his hand towards it. His gloved fingers traced one of the carved symbols and he felt something in the bones of his fingertips. A slight resonance? A vibration? It scared the shit out of him and he jerked his hand back.

Taking stock, he reminded himself to keep breathing. _I’m fine. Maybe it was just my imagination._ But he didn’t try to touch it again. Instead he pulled his camera up from where it floated, attached to his weight belt. _The chances this thing has power are nil_ , he thought, but to his surprise, the screen lit up when he depressed the power button. _Odd…_ He helmet lights flared back on and he heard a buzz of white noise from his radio. _Huh…_

“Lawrence here. Anybody there?”, he tested.

“This is DeepCore. Are you back in Bert?” It was Kay. As he looked back towards Bert and Raj, he saw the lights of the Geeks flicker back to life.

“No,” he was astonished. “I’m still standing right next to the damn thing!”

~~~~~

“Drs. Brigman and Almquist, we greatly appreciate and value your opinions in this matter, but surely you must see what a discovery this is? What an opportunity!”

Lawrence and Kay were sitting together facing a large screen displaying a room full of Weyland Corp. (previously Benthic Petroleum) executives, scientific advisors and public relations staff. It had to be the most attendees they’d ever had at one of their remote advisory meetings. Obviously, their latest report had caused quite a stir upstairs.

Roberts was in charge of the biodiversity survey’s advisory committee and the one who decided whether to keep cutting checks. “Your survey mission is very important to us, Drs. Weyland Corp. is devoted to cataloguing and preserving biodiversity.”

 _Only because they are now being held responsible for wiping out so much of it,_ thought Lawrence wryly. He was under no illusions about the motives of their main corporate benefactors. _Funny how losing a few class action lawsuits to children opened their eyes up to the public image-cleansing power of studying ecosystems instead of pillaging them._ He rolled his shoulders and tried to steer his thoughts in a more constructive direction.

“But we cannot ignore what could be an incredibly important and impactful discovery. We must prioritize the study of this finding. It could completely overturn our understanding of human history, maybe.” The reputation-rehabilitating possibilities practically danced in his eyes. “It could be anything, Brigman.”

“Maybe even alien?” piped up a fairly young man with, what Lawrence could only assume, was a very trendy haircut. He shared a wry glance with Kay. The kid must be PR. “Um…”

“Well, we shall see.” Roberts said smoothly. “We have sent your photos to a few well regarded symbologists and ancient language experts. In the meantime, we are bringing in some specialists.”

Lawrence and Kay shared another, longer look Her eyebrows had shot up in unhappy surprise. Lawrence hoped his poker face was holding.

Roberts continued, “For example, Dr. Brooke J. Carter is an expert in subsurface acoustic and x-ray imaging techniques from our mineral and petroleum division. She will bring down some equipment that will hopefully tell us more about our wonderful discovery.”

“Down to DeepCore?” Kay was shocked. “Is her equipment waterproof? Does she have dive training? Is she qualified to access the object site?” She was practically sputtering.

“She is currently undergoing dive training and studying the DeepCore orientation materials,” Roberts assurance was dismissive. “That should be sufficient as she will not be leaving the DeepCore Station. Your team will extract the object and relocate it to DeepCore where we can study it in a more conducive environment.”

“I’m afraid I must object, Roberts!” Lawrence couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “We can’t move it! We’ve just taken a few pictures so far. We haven’t properly documented or characterized its surroundings in any way. Who knows what valuable information we could miss by disturbing it?” His frustration was clear in his voice now. “We still don’t have a clue what caused the change in electromagnetic interference we previously observed. Hell, we don’t even know if the damn thing can be moved!”

“Well, Drs. You and your team have two weeks. Do your best.”

~~~~~

A different man strode into a different kitchen.

This man stood far above average height and his long strides carried him quickly down the few stairs and into an antiquated industrial cooking space with no windows. The man was in his mid-fifty’s. His longish brown hair, well peppered with grey, was pulled back in a small ponytail at the base of his skull. His beard was well-trimmed and had even more grey running through it. He was very well fit for his age. In fact, his face retained a slight flush from a 5-mile run he had finished earlier and his hair was still damp from a shower. He set a stack of computer, papers and books on the kitchen counter and prepared himself a fruit and vegetable smoothie. Then collecting his stack of work in one arm and sipping at the glass of green liquid held in his free hand, he left the kitchen and proceeded down the well-lit, tiled hallway.

He turned into a room lined with books and filled with long wooden tables, also with no windows, but the far end opened up to a larger darkened space. It was early, but unlike the kitchen, he did not have the library to himself. A woman in her mid-twenty’s was already bent over a particularly hefty tome, looking back and forth from the cramped typewritten pages to a nearby yellow pad where she was taking furious notes. She straightened a moment to sip her coffee and noticed her new companion enter the room.

“Ready for your comprehensive exams next month, Abby?” the man asked pleasantly.

“Not really, sir,” the young woman responded sheepishly. He winced a little internally at being called sir, but had learned from many prior attempts there was little to be gained in trying to convince the younger trainees to call him by his name. He let it go.

“You’re at it bright and early today,” he gestured towards to book. “What are you studying?”

“Classification of Demons.”

“Ah, well let me know if you have any questions,” but he hoped she wouldn’t. Not for the first time he wondered if he should just bite the bullet and set up a private study where he could work without being disturbed. But years of grabbing the odd public spot to do research (diners, bars, car hoods) had ingrained in him a distaste for being stashed away in a quiet closet. He settled down at his customary table in the corner and laid out his computer and other materials before him.

He quickly became engrossed in writing, typing steadily and taking the occasional sip from his glass. He had just saved the latest chapter in his edition of On the Inner Workings of Angels, an expansion of Haggerty’s original monograph, when his phone rang. Looking round and stretching his flannel covered arms, he saw his library buddy had exited at some point, probably off to training sessions. He had the room to himself.

He saw the caller ID and smiled. Accepting the video call, a narrow face with a sharp chin popped up on his screen, crowned by a cascading fountain of soft red curls.

“Beautiful as always, Rowena.”

The tension evident in her face eased with a small smile. “And you manage to get more distinguished every time I see you, Samuel.”

He couldn’t help but enjoy the charming way her Scottish brogue cartwheeled through the word ‘distinguished’. “Actually, it's called getting old,” he countered with a gentle laugh.

She shook her head and pursed her lips, “And whose fault is that?” There were echoes of many, long-past arguments in her voice. It was a familiar and bitter topic between the two of them. But her brief bout of melancholic nostalgia evidently reminded her of her original purpose in calling, because the earlier tension fell back across her face like a shadow.

“Sam,” and the way she said his name gave him a rush of foreboding. “Something has happened to the box.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of my version of VH1's Where Are They Now: Winchester et al. Edition

Sam set his phone down and sat back heavily into his wooden chair. His gaze stayed fixed on his dark phone where it lay on the table.

 _Dean…_ This was his chance to get Dean back. He’d spent the last twenty years hoping for this moment. He had feared he would never even get this chance, that Rowena had stolen it from him long ago.

Sam continued to stare sightlessly at his phone on the table, but his thoughts were far away. As he had many times in the intervening years, Sam allowed his mind to drift back to those last days with Dean.

~~~~~

They were driving west, the direction of hope and safety in so many old lore books, but to Sam, they were driving toward death. They had pulled off to refill the impala's gas tank and grab a burger. Walking through the pub parking lot back to the impala, Sam, with a few beers in him, couldn’t hold it in any longer. Like a half-healed wound he was compelled to scratch, Sam hadn’t been able to stop himself from trying one more time, instigating again the same argument they’d been having on and off for the last two days.

“But why, Dean? The bottom of the ocean?!”

“Sam,” Dean’s voice was firm. “No one can have access to the box. Not even you. Maybe especially you.” Dean shook his head.  “It’s too dangerous. You’ve seen the book.”

 “Screw Billie and her damned book!” Sam was defiant, against Billie, against fate, against Dean’s continued refusal to question any of it.

“Great, and what other options do we have? You got any ideas? Right now, Sam? Cause right now is when we need them, brother.” They reached the car and Dean stood next to it, leaning one arm on the roof in a subtle sign of needed support that Sam had missed at the time. Dean continued, “Not tomorrow, not next week, not next year. Now, Sam. The walls are cracking.” Dean pointed to his skull. “I’m doing all I can to hold him back as we speak.  And if he gets out, the world is done for,” Dean thumped his fist on the roof of the impala, probably wishing he was thumping his brother’s head, ”ashes. That’s what he said. That’s what Billie said.” Sam turned away from Dean and the car, his head down, futilely trying to tamp down his frustration.

Dean had seen Sam’s struggle in the set of his shoulders and tried to make it easier for him. His voice quieted, “We’ve got one play to make here, Sam.” Dean’s words were slow, and his voice was resigned and exhausted. Sam’s heart was breaking for him, but at the same time, he wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake the shit out of him.

“Why won’t you fight, damn it?!” Sam spun around again, face scrunched and red. “Go down fighting!” Sam, in pure exasperation, grabbed Dean by the shoulders and shoved him back against the door of the impala. A couple of chatting pub patrons smoking near the entrance fell silent, looking over at the commotion.

Dean took hold of Sam’s arms, still holding him against the car but not with any real force. He moved his brother back gently but firmly. Dean’s voice was soft and ragged as it pushed through a tightening throat, “I am fighting. This is me fighting with the only weapon I have left.” Dean let go his brother and took a step to the side, but kept his tired, creased eyes locked onto Sam’s reddened ones. “I’m tired. I made this mess and I just want to fix it. Now, before I’m responsible for any more damage.”

“But you’re not responsible for it! Fucking Michael is responsible! Lucifer!” Sam threw his arms out after wildly after each name, as if he wished they were there to take the brunt of his rage instead of his brother. “Jack! Cas! I have just as much a hand in this as you.”

“No, Sam,” Dean shook his head gently. “I’m the one who said yes. I thought it was the only option, but it was ultimately my choice. I knew there was a chance it could go bad, but I did it anyway. Michael’s on me.”

“You thought you only had one choice then and look where it got you, Dean! What makes you think this time is going to be any different? Give me a chance to find you a better choice!” Sam pleaded, desperate.

Sam was aware that beneath all the anger that bubbled in his gut, there was something else. He was afraid. Afraid that his brother was right. Afraid that he’d convince Dean to wait and then fail him. Afraid to lose his brother, the only person in this world that he could lean on, could depend on. The one constant through his whole fucked up life. When he tried to picture a future without Dean, it was like looking into a black hole.

“You do have a chance. You have until we reach Oregon.”

“That’s bull shit and you know it,” Sam’s voice was bitter. “You believe Billie when she says this is the only way? She hates our guts. Would like nothing more than to see us both jump into the grave of our own free will”

Dean shrugged his shoulders with finality. “We’re running out of time. Michael’s a few hard hits from busting through my skull like the Kool-Aid Man. Whatever Billie’s motives are, we know the ma’lak box will work. Cas checked it. It’s the real deal.”

“Sam, we’ve got to stop putting family before everyone and everything else. Us opening the rift to the Apocalypse World to get Mom and Jack back is what started this mess with Michael. Sure, Lucifer and Jack himself put them there, but we opened a rift and made it possible for Michael follow us back.”

“How could we know that was going to happen?” Sam protested.

“We never know. And we always think it’s worth the risk. Sure, we’ve saved the world, but how many times was it in danger because of something we did? We’re always running one step ahead of the apocalypse, man. I’m tired of running.”

Sam knew Dean was right, even as, at the same time, he was just as certain Dean was wrong. This whole damn situation was wrong. But Sam looked at the fear and resignation in his brother’s face and relented. They’d been over this ground enough times already. If Sam couldn’t change Dean’s mind by now, he was just going to have to think of something else. The two men climbed into the impala and drove off into the night. That was the last time Sam would push Dean on the subject. It was also the moment Sam became determined he would find some way to dig his brother back out of the hole he had resolved to throw himself into.

~~~~~

It was dusk when they reached Astoria, Oregon, a rusty old fishing and cannery town that had seen better days. A fog had gradually thickened around them the closer they came to the coast and the end of their journey.

Dean pulled the impala and its load past a sagging chain link fence with a missing gate and into a rundown private marina. As he brought the car to a stop and turned off the engine, a small figure approached through the mist. It was Rowena.

Sam turned to Dean, “What is Rowena doing here?  You wouldn’t even let Cas come.”

“She’s my insurance, Sam. She’s here to make sure you don’t back out on your promise. She’s going to bind this box so that no one can open it and she’s making sure it and me go out on that,” he pointed towards a dirty little fishing boat, the only one tied to a long dock. He swung the car door open with a metallic creak and went to greet the red-haired witch. He continued on towards an old shipping container with a door in the side, above which hung a sign reading ‘Tigger’s Boat Repair’, while Rowena continued to walk towards Sam, still seated in the car.

When Dean returned, he brought in tow a short man in dirty jeans and a ripped trucker hat. Tigger, Sam supposed. Dean showed him their intended cargo, boxed up and hidden in a crate, and the guy went to get his boat ready. He thought he was helping them illegally dump a load of banned pesticide. _What a lovely human being_ , Sam thought.

“You are leaving with the impala, Sam. Now. Take good care of her,” Dean picked up his brother’s hand and dropped the keys into it.

“No, I’m going with you! You trust that lowlife?”

“Do you know how to drive a boat, Sam? We need him. Rowena is going to seal me in that box and come along to make sure Sleazy over there does the job he’s paid for. You are not coming because our ‘friend’ is suspicious enough without you being there, crying over a box of illegal chemicals.”

Dean hugged his brother tightly then patted his back awkwardly. “Okay, time to go, Sammy. Drop the hitch and get out of here.” When Sam started to protest that he would stay, Dean was firm. “No. You’re not going to watch me climb into my coffin.” Sam looked into Dean’s eyes and could clearly see the fear lurking beneath his brother’s casual facade, but he also saw the steel determination to go through with this mad plan.

Rowena stood to the side, silent, through this exchange. She did not avoid Sam’s eyes when he looked over at her beseechingly, and though she looked back at him with empathy, she kept her peace and left him to his.

And in the end, Sam did what Dean wanted. He said goodbye to his brother, his best friend, and drove away.

~~~~~

Rowena came to Sam, after. She told him what happened after he left. How Dean had climbed into the box and how Rowena had placed spells of binding and protection and vigilance upon it and nailed the wooden crate closed. How she had sat watch over the crate and its contents as it was loaded onto the little fishing boat that evening and carried many miles off shore. How it had sank quickly out of site into the water.

She stayed with Sam, in part to make amends for her role in the whole foul process, and in part because she understood the pain he was going through, having gone through something like it herself. Sam was angry at her for a long while, but she just kept offering to make him tea and sitting quietly in the room with him. Mary had been her own special kind of wreck and after attempting to mother him for a bit, soon gave it up as a bad job and disappeared back to her cabin with Bobby to cope in her own manner. Jack had been crushed that Dean had kept everything from him and he took his hurt and anger towards Dean out on Sam before the two of them eventually made peace. Cas understood Sam’s sadness and frustration towards Dean all too well, and for a time it was hard for Sam to be in the angel’s presence very long. It just amplified all of Sam’s grief even more. In comparison to the rest of his remaining family, Rowena’s was a calm and soothing presence. Someone who did not ask anything of him at that time when he had very little to give, for which he was grateful. Of course, it didn’t stop him from locking up every spell book and magical artifact they had in the bunker. He wasn’t a fool. But in the end, nothing went missing and Rowena remained. For a while, at least.

Sam coped with his grief over losing Dean in the usual way. _And how sad it was_ , he thought, _that he had a usual way of mourning Dean_. He threw himself into his work. The bunker was still filled with hunters from the apocalypse world, many of whom knew enough to get themselves into danger, but not enough to get back out again. There were still hidden enclaves of Michael’s monsters to take care of, particularly around St. Louis. It came down to a numbers game in the end. Without the AU hunters, Sam would have been overwhelmed, but with their help, he eventually got the super monster situation back under control. It firmed Sam’s resolve that this organization he had started developing was the right thing to do. He devoted himself to building up his team and sharing the lore of the Men of Letters with them. Eventually, the occasional kid with the typical hunter’s backstory of loss and revenge would get dropped on the bunker’s doorstep and he took them in too. Mom came and went, always chasing the hunt, sometimes taking a few apprentices with her, sometimes by herself. She didn’t really have the patience to help Sam with the teaching or training, but she always supported Sam’s aspirations and did what she was capable of to help.

Cas and Jack stayed with Sam in the bunker for many years, helping, hunting, eventually teaching, but as Jack’s grace began to slowly regenerate, he became curious to know more about the other side of his heritage. It would still be decades more before the nephilim’s grace again reached the strength he’d held before Lucifer ripped it from him, but Cas had taken him to heaven. There the two of them had stayed for the last eight years or so, Jack learning what it was to be an angel and the two of them doing what they could to try and keep the lights on upstairs.

And, for many years, Rowena’s presence was more or less a constant. She never stayed very long, but she always returned eventually. Sometimes she helped if a case caught her fancy, but just as often she told Sam he was a grown man, not a boy in short pants, and he could solve his problems for himself. In their grief and trauma, they found each other kindred spirits of a sort. They both had first-hand experience of Lucifer’s torture and, after fighting so many years with her son, when she actually lost Crowley, she belatedly came to see how strongly he had made a place for himself in her heart.

“Like a parasite, or a fungal infection,” she would say. “Not that we shared anywhere near the codependent nightmare that was your relationship with Dean, but I did grow quite fond of him and regret that with all my power, I couldn't do anything to save him. From you and your brother’s schemes, of course, poor sod. And you’ll be the death of me too one day. Would you care for some tea?”

For all the times they gave each other comfort, they also fought. As the years passed, Rowena never grew older. She tried to convince Sam that if he truly valued the work he was doing, he should allow her to teach him the spell that would keep him, like her, young forever to continue it. But Sam had no taste for either long life or the black magic required to obtain it, and refused. At first Sam tolerated her occasional forays into magical mayhem and the constant, sometimes murderous, bickering with her fellow witches. The bad habits of centuries were not easily broken, he reasoned, but he eventually came to realize, for all her newfound better impulses, she would never abandon her roots completely. His ethics could only stretch so far in service of his emotions and they fought more and more about that as well. After one particularly bad argument, she left and stayed away. Although they remained fond of each other, it was never the same. Underneath every disagreement, like a tiny burning ember ready to ignite a fire with whatever tinder was at hand, lay Sam’s resentment of her role in taking Dean from him. He wasn’t blind to her attempted recompense, but stealing his brother beyond his grasp was a wound that never fully healed.

Everything he had striven for and accomplished over the years, building up a small army of hunters, reviving the Men of Letters, collecting, experimenting and expanding upon the known lore, had all been in service of one unspoken purpose. To defeat Michael and save Dean. He had driven himself to become humanity’s greatest expert on angels, alternate universes, and God’s entire creation, all with the eventual hope of changing Dean’s fate. It was a chance he was never sure he would get. Dean was still trapped in a box at the bottom of the ocean, out of Sam’s reach. For all Sam’s experiments fiddling with fate, with the box out his hands, he was just rolling dice in the face of insurmountably bad odds, hoping for a miracle.

~~~~~

Sam stood up from the library table. He grabbed his phone from where it lay, but left everything else behind him as he walked back towards his room. More hunters and trainees were in the hallways now. They spoke greetings, but other than a few terse nods, Sam ignored them.

He reached his room and locked the door behind him. He went to the bed frame and pulled it away from the wall. There, near the floor in the wall, was a small safe. Sam bent down and turned the dial back and forth in a sure manner. It had been some time since he last opened it, but the combination was fixed into his memory. The last pin fell into place and Sam pulled down on the metal handle. The small door swung open and Sam reached in to pull out a flat wooden box. He took the box and sat down on his displaced bed. Lifting the plain lid of the box, he saw the colt laying in its usual place, and next to it, a number of bullets. The sight of the box’s contents both reassured Sam and made his stomach roil with trepidation. For the thousandth time, Sam wished he still had access to the book Dean had shown him from Billie’s library, but it had disappeared from the bunker after Dean went in the box.

He swallowed thickly and closed the lid. Placing the box next to him on the bedspread, he pulled his phone from his jean’s pocket. Sam didn’t bother to call Mary, she never picked up the phone anyway. Instead, he texted his mom, ‘Come home. Urgent’ but provided no further details. Hopefully she'd see the message at some point and head back to the bunker. Sam replaced his phone in his pocket, bent his head down and squeezed his eyes closed, concentrating.

 _Cas, you listening?_ he prayed. _It's Dean, Cas. We're gonna need your help down here._

Sam raised his head a little and opened just one eye to peek at the still empty room. He shook his head at his own silliness. Long gone were the days when Cas could just wing himself around heaven and earth to answer the Winchesters’ prayers. Sam resealed both eyes tightly and tried again.

 _Mayday, mayday. Cas, you have your ears on?_ _Dean. Michael. Box. Get your feathered ass down here._

Sam sighed and opened his eyes. That would have to do for now. He’d try again later. In the meantime, he had preparations to make.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much drama! I hope I did the boys justice. Is Dean really Sam's best friend? That phrase isn't really big enough, but I left it in there. *shrug*
> 
> Still laying a lot of track here, but next chapter the train starts rolling.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got no troubles  
> Life is the bubbles  
> Under the sea  
> Under the sea  
> ~Sebastian the Crab

Larry and the newcomer appeared in the doorway.

“And here’s the Bio Lab. We went ahead and moved your stuff in already,” he gestured towards a stack of large, heavy-duty plastic boxes stacked against one wall. “Kay?”

Kay looked up with a nervous grimace, pipettor in hand, just in time to see the newest occupant of DeepCore burst into the lab, not so much stepping as bounding through the bulkhead door.

She noted Larry was quick to make his departure. _Lord, that bad, huh?._ “Uh, just give me a moment, if you don’t mind,” Kay finished adding preservative to a batch of microtubes, closed her solution bottles and stripped off her gloves. “You must be Dr. Carter. I suppose a welcome is in order.” Kay took off her safety glasses and walked forward to greet their latest interloper. _The first being that damn box_.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Dr Almquist!” The woman was of moderate height with long mousy brown hair and big eyes. She shook Kay’s hand with a disconcerting eagerness. “I’ve been reading up on all your work in preparation for my trip down here. It’s so fascinating!” Her bright smile was meant to be ingratiating, Kay was sure.

“Well, um…” Kays answering smile was awkward. She wished she was as good as buttoning down her feelings as Larry. Too many times in her career she had stepped on toes it would have been better to have danced around. She had a bad feeling she would be doing it again very soon.

“I, uh, suppose you would like to see it?” Kay just decided to skip over trying to pretend to make friends and distract her would-be-bff with the true object of her quest. Kay went over to a long, canvas draped shape resting on low risers on the lab floor. She pulled the canvas away with a swoop to reveal the large, coffin-shaped box. Kay gazed down at the thing for the first time since she had begged Serge for the canvas to hide it from sight. The pristine surface was embedded with a number of irregularly shaped metal panels and on each was emblazoned a symbol the size of a dinner plate. Wiggling intersecting lines, runic-looking lettering, pictograms. It made Kay’s eyes blur and head ache to look at them. With a lingering frown, she turned to face Carter, presenting the box with a sweep of her arm in a weak imitation of a spokesmodel at a car show. “Viola. All yours.” She spun on her heals and escaped back towards her work bench.

Carter’s eyes lit up with avarice. “You know,“ she said, attempting but failing to project casualness, “they’ve heard back from the symbologists. They believe some of these markings are Celtic, others Babylonian, and some they still have no idea at all. They’re not quite sure what they mean yet, but apparently a few have something to do with fortification or warning. Amazing, isn’t it?” Something in her voice brought images of hyenas swarming over carrion into Kay’s mind.

“Well I guess that rules out aliens then,” quipped Kay jokingly.

“Ah, yes, more’s the pity…” There was true regret in Carter’s voice and Kay’s eyebrows tried to jump off the top of her head before she wrangled them back into place, “But at least that should make it an easier sell to the scientific community.”

_Was the woman serious? Was she already writing the journal articles? Working on her TED Talk? Good lord…_

“Do you mind if I commander some space here?” Carter’s asked sweetly, already walking back and forth plunking boxes on the nearest lab bench. “I’d like to get my equipment set up as soon as possible to see if we can get a peak of what’s inside this magnificent thing.” Kay watched all this out of the corner of her eyes, half believing she caught the woman rubbing her hands together as she paused her unpacking a moment to stand before the box in awe.

“Uh, sure,” Kay kept her voice as welcoming as she could manage and a smile plastered on her face. “Make yourself at home.”

~~~~~

“I’m going to kill her!”

“Kay….” Lawrence’s low voice rumbled with amused exasperation. They were sitting together across a tiny banquet in his cabin, ostensibly for the purpose of discussing scheduled sector sampling. Given how it was currently going though, he didn’t hold any illusions they’d end up making much progress on that agenda.

“It’s bad enough you had to put that damn box in my lab, but that woman is driving me, and the rest of the team, mad. She’s completely taken over the place. We can’t get anything done. Our schedule is completely blown to hell.” Kay, elbow leaning on the table, pointed aggressively at Lawrence. “And you know we’re losing Karl and Ning at the end of the month. That’s going to put us even further behind.”

All he could do was shrug and make a I’m-innocent-don’t-blame-me face, but Kay steamrolled over his mute protestations.

“Do you know what x-ray energies she is using to try and see through that metal? Outrageous! And I doubt she’s properly shielding any of it. I won’t let the staff in there when that damn machine is on.” Kay plowed onwards, “I don't like all those x-rays around my cell lines and samples. This is no way to treat genetic samples that cost hundreds of thousands of dollars to collect.” She was pugnacious, spoiling for a fight and finally able to vent her frustration to a friendly ear. But though the ear was beyond friendly, Lawrence had enough on his plate without Kay going into righteous warrior mode.

He held his hands up, as if in surrender, or to fend off the torrent of her complaints. “Kay. Relax. I know you’re catching the worst of the pain right now, but do you think Raj and I really enjoyed figuring out how to drag that thing back here?”

“Are you serious? Of course, you did!” But she would not be diverted. “And touching everything! If I see her genetic material pop up in my samples, so help me…”

He sighed.

~~~~~

“Larry…” A day later and Kay’s face was concerned again.

“Damn it, Kay! Are we doing this again? I know it’s no picnic, but we’re between and rock and hard place.”

“No, no, it’s not that. Larry, Carter’s got the shakes.”

“She’s showing signs of HPNS? Are you sure?”

Kay nodded, “Ning’s the one who noticed it first. Then I saw it too. Have you seen her lately? She looks terrible, like she hasn’t slept in days. It’s Sonny all over again.”

Lawrence sighed _._ High-pressure nervous syndrome was always a risk when they brought down new staff. _Damn it. She was briefed on this. Why didn’t she self-report? We are not equipped to deal with this right now, world-changing break though or no._

“All right. Tell her to report to medical immediately. I’ll call topside. Let’s get her, and that hunk of metal, out of here as soon as possible and get back to doing our jobs.”

~~~~~

Carter sat on a stool slouched over, elbow on the benchtop, chin on her fist, her laptop open in front of her. She was looking through her data yet again, desperate to notice something she missed. Double-checking her calibrations, her calculations, grasping at any straw to explain her failure to date.

 _Why the hell are my images so blurry?_ Ultrasound, X-ray CT scans, they were all a mess. She rubbed at her tired eyes as if they, and not her equipment, were the problem. _Elemental analysis proves this thing is made out of regular old iron and steel. This doesn’t make any sense! There is no good reason these diagnostic images aren’t crystal clear._ She was running out of time. Dr. Brigman had informed her she was showing signs of a serious nervous disorder and that she and the box were going topside tomorrow morning. She would end up in a hospital for a few weeks and this massive opportunity, her career-making chance, would slip through her fingers and into someone else’s. In exhausted frustration she let her tired head drop to the bench top, softly banging it against the hard surface, as if that could help jog some new idea loose.

Growling at her own stupidity and at the sleepy fog that had been hanging over her brain since she arrived, she abandoned the computer and spun around on the stool to face the object that had stubbornly resisted her best attempts to crack its secrets. It lay there before her, tantalizing, unknowable. Yet again her eyes dwelled over each curve and corner of the engraved symbols on its surface, their loops and jagged lines making her mind swim. She had memorized them all at this point. She dropped to her knees and placed her hands on, what she had come to think of as the box’s, surface. She studiously ignored the trembling of her extended fingers. She traced the grooved lines over and over again, trying to absorb their meaning through her body. Mesmerized, she lost track of how long her fingers, her sight, her whole mind was absorbed in the tangible mystery before her.

At long last she looked up at the digital clock on the wall. 02:00, it read. _Jesus, has it already been an hour?_ It was not the first time she has forgotten herself contemplating its cryptic surface, yearning to learn what is inside. This was her mystery, her chance to prove herself its master and prove to all her self-important, condescending peers that she was their better after all, though she had failed so many times to obtain a professorship. A chance she could feel slipping away with every passing moment. She thumped her fists against the hard metal surface, relishing the dull pain in her forearms. _I deserve it,_ she thought feverishly, _I am a failure. They’ll take it away from me and someone else will succeed where I have failed. Yet again._

With a snarl of self-hatred, she shifted her weight and turned to sit on the floor, her back to the box, kicking out angrily with her two legs against her tool box laying nearby. The tool box upended with a satisfying clatter, strewing its contents away from her in a long plume across the floor. She looked at the mess, her wave of anger turning to depression. _What the hell am I doing?_ Stiffly, she rose to her feet and went to collect the assorted screwdrivers, wrenches, spools of wiring now littering the lab floor. Bending, she picked up a hammer. She paused, feeling the weight of it in her hand. A new thought occurred to her. She gave the hammer a few swings, testing its balance.

Hammer still in hand, she knelt, slightly off balance, facing the box again. Along one long upper edge were three misshapen blobs of metal, almost like hinges or locks, but melted. Before her exhausted rational brain could argue against it, she grabbed a large screwdriver and held it against one of the molten features. Raising the hammer up above her head, arm shaking, she struck down on the handle of the screwdriver. The point of the screwdriver slipped against the metal as if on ice, smoothly sliding away and turning her hand instead to meet the hammer, which crushed it against the surface.

 _Fuuuuuuck!_ she screamed internally, biting her lower lip at the pain. The screwdriver had fallen to the floor. She brought her hand to cradle it against her chest, rocking back and forth. After a few moments, the sharp pain dulled and she looked down to see the damage she had done herself. Blood dripped from her shaking fingers where the hammer had broken the skin, but though it throbbed like a son of a bitch, no bones felt broken. She leaned heavily against the box as she regained her feet, resting the forearm of her hurt hand against the flat top. A few drops of red fell onto the metal surface.

_Boom._

She turned, startled, at the low, resonant sound. It had seemed to come from all around her. Was something wrong with the station? Listening, she heard nothing further and thought maybe her tired brain was playing tricks on her. _I should go to bed. What am I even doing? Am I going to damage the box? Then I’ll not only be a failure, but a failure with no job._

She sighed and returned to the lab bench, closed her computer and stacked her notes in preparation for going to her cabin and some much-needed sleep.

_Boom._

This time she was sure the sound emanated from behind her. She spun and looked disbelievingly at the box. _It couldn’t be._

She went to the box and knelt, placing her two hands, one dry, one bloody, flat on its surface. _Am I hallucinating_? she wondered. _Is this the HPNS?_ _My impaired nervous system playing tricks on me?_ Almost immediately, she heard the sound again, felt the vibration of it running through her palms. Spreading her hands out wider across the box’s surface, she leaned down and lightly placed her ear to the metal.

_Boom. Boom._

Startled, she jerked back, pulling her hands from the box. She could see the smeared trail of her own blood stretching across the flat surface, collecting in the etched lines of the counter-relief carvings, coloring them red. She held her bloody hand before her, thoughtful. She placed just this left hand again on the box, atop one of the graven symbols. But her relatively small cut had begun to clot and stopped bleeding. Casting her gaze around, she spied a box cutter lying in the tray of her nearby tool box. Quickly, before her conscious mind could catch up to her instinct, she pierced her hand with the sharp point of its blade. Fresh blood welled up, pooling in her upturned palm. She brought her bloody hand back, palm down, to rest on the carved symbol. She moved her palm back and forth until all of its lines were filled with her blood. As the last line was joined in red, a frisson, like a small electric shock, travelled up through her arm. She quickly moved on to the next, clean symbol. When her blood clotted again, she widened the cut further. And so she continued, until each of the large symbols on the box had been completely saturated in her blood. As the last line of the last of the etching was completed in red, the booming sound came again and again, faster and each louder than the last. The previously barely perceptible vibrations had strengthened into fully visible tremors. The box was ringing as if struck like a large bell.

The sound grew louder and louder. She covered her ears. She could feel the vibrations through the floor now. Glassware on the shelves began to rock, a few pieces tipping over and rolling off to shatter against the floor. The shaking must be radiating through the entire station. The metal walls and their bracket-fixed pipes whined and groaned. Carter curled up into a fetal position with her back to the lab bench, covering her neck, not knowing what to do. She had clearly caused a reaction that was now completely beyond her control and threatened to damage the fragile metal shell that protected them all from the crushing pressure of thousands of feet of icy cold water.

With a final resonate crash, the top of the box blew open. The electric ceiling lamps overloaded in bursts of light, sending fountains of sparks downward. The lab stereo came on with a brain numbing screech of white noise.

And suddenly, all was still. A smell of ozone lingered in her nose. The scream of the speakers quieted and, with a rip of static, incongruously began blasting the rock music Almquist had been playing earlier that day. With a reluctant flicker, the lab’s red emergency lights came on. Carter hazarded a peak towards the box. It stood open. On hands and knees, she crawled towards it, looking down inside with trepidation.

It was empty. Nothing but plain metal met her gaze. She sat back on her heels, dazed.

“Fascinating.”

At the low male voice, Carter whipped around, grasping the edge of the box for stability. A man stood on the far side of the room, draped in the red shadows of the emergency lights. He was tall, wearing a long overcoat and a flattened cap. _Was that a three-piece suit?_ She wondered incredulously, mouth hanging open. Her brain tried to sputter back to life. His face was mostly in shadow, all she could tell was he was clean-shaven. But by the shape of his jaw and the way he stood, she didn’t think she recognized him. He wasn’t station crew.

He looked around him at the maze of pipes, valves and gauges on the ceiling and walls. “So complicated. So breakable.” He walked casually towards and then past her, ignoring her as if she was another piece of furniture, until he reached the box. He ran a forefinger along a bloodied carving, brought his finger to his nose and gave it a fastidious sniff. His nostrils wrinkled in distaste.

Looking down towards Carter, “You?” he asked, wiping his index finger against his thumb to clean it. “If you could see the truly stupid look on your face right now… Uriel wasn’t all wrong, was he?”

He turned from her and the box and strode towards the closed bulkhead door leading into the passageway and the rest of the station. At the door, he paused and, keeping his back to her, turned his head to reveal his profile. A blue glow abruptly shone from beneath the brim of his hat.

Carter arched her back in sudden agony and fell to the floor, soul burning from within. It took no more than a second and she lay dead, eye sockets empty and scorched.

“Thank you for freeing me,” he said simply. Facing the door again, he pulled it open and stepped into the brightly lit passage beyond.

~~~~~

Kay and Larry were shaken from sleep by the series of violent tremors rocking the station. They looked at each other in sleepy shock. It felt like an undersea earthquake, but they were not near known regions of geological activity. They heard muffled yelling through the bulkhead.

“The station!” Larry instantly went into red alert mode, bounding from the mattress and across the small cabin in two long, bare-footed strides. He gave the door latch a strong jerk and shoved his way through door and into the hallway. Kay scrambled to her feet, pausing to pull on her shoes, and followed behind him.

“What the…?” she muttered under her breath, stopping in her tracks. The scene in the passageway was nothing she could have anticipated. Several bodies lay strewn across the floor like abandon dolls. A strangely dressed man stood in their midst. In the bright ceiling lights, Kay saw he was wearing a brown tweed suit and coat, matching cap on his head.

Just as she stepped through the doorway, three crew members and Larry, his back towards her, went suddenly ramrod straight. She saw the strange man’s eyes glow with a freakish blue light and the men fell to the floor, nothing left of their eyes but burned out holes. They were dead. With disbelieving horror, she stared at Larry’s unmoving form on the floor. Kay was fixed in place, stunned by the shear impossibility of it all.

From the behind the murderous stranger came a deep, incoherent bellow. Serge roared out of a side passage at full speed, charging towards the figure like a raging grizzly. When he reached the man, who had not bothered to turn, Serge threw himself with all his weight and force. It was as if he had tried to tackle a steel beam. The bear of a man bounced backwards against the bulkhead wall and fell to the floor.

The mysterious stranger finally turned his head in the direction of Serge and Kay saw again blue light spark. She had seen enough to know what that meant, but she didn’t know how to help Serge. Her stasis broken, Kay turned and raced away down the curving hallway.

She reached the open bulkhead door of the red-lit lab and leapt through, deliberately not closing it behind her. AC/DC music was blasting over the stereo. To her left she could see what must have been Carter’s body, supine on the floor, next to the object. It was indeed a box, Kay saw, now open and empty. _That man, that thing, came from inside? What the hell is it?_

She ran over to the chemical containment cabinet. Yanking the doors open, she hastily rummaged through and came out with a thick, heavy glass bottle filled with clear liquid and set it on the floor. Next, a large volumetric flask from a neighboring shelf. Throughout all this, her eyes kept flicking up to the open lab door, now just a view of the empty passageway outside, but her breath caught with each glance, dreading the inevitable moment when the doorway was no longer empty. She had no time. Hurriedly, she unscrewed the bottle’s lid and poured the viscous contents into the flask, spilling copious amounts down the side of the long neck and onto the floor. Grabbing a nearby lab coat, she wrapped it as well as she could around her hands. She capped the flask and grasped it by the neck, with only the poor protection of the fabric coat for her hands. She scrambled back towards the lab entrance and hid behind a group of vertical floor to ceiling pipes just inside the bulkhead door. Waiting. Staring through the pipeworks at the edge of the door. Fearing to breath. Ears straining for the inevitable sound of striding feet. Hearing nothing. _Blast him, he’s quiet._

At the first glimpse of a leather shoe, she swung the flask around like a bat, aiming for his head. The thin-walled glass shattered, spilling concentrated sulfuric acid over his face and chest. Some droplets splashed onto her arms and face, leaving small burning points on her skin. Kay sprang back without taking her eyes off him, trying to put distance between herself and the assailant. Unseeing, she tripped over Carter’s lifeless feet and tumbled backwards.

The man stopped just inside the doorway. He did not appear to be in any pain, though angry red and white patches spread across his skin, beginning to melt. He pulled off his hat, now in tatters, and held it delicately in front of him with two fingers, shaking residual drops onto the floor. Kay could see the neat part in his brown hair where it had been protected under the cap, but elsewhere his eyes were burnt white by the acid, his eyebrows mostly gone. Kay saw the white of his cheekbones showing through where the skin and muscle above had corroded away. It was horrific, but the man, whatever he was, remained unperturbed. What was left of his lips actually curved into a small annoyed grimace, but as his lips were only half there it was difficult to say for sure.

He bent his arm nonchalantly, bringing his left hand up to the level of his shoulder, and eyes suddenly glowing with a brilliant blue light again, snapped his fingers. In the blink of an eye, all the damage from the acid was gone. His face, his clothes, all untouched. Kay doubted what her eyes were showing her. She could still feel the burning pricks of pain on her own hands and face. The spilled acid at his feet was etching its way through the metal floor.

His once more unharmed face turned downward to where Kay had fallen back on the floor. His eyes were no longer radiating that queasily unnatural light. They were light green, with prominent eyelids. His full lips pursed at her in casual disappointment. Though obviously not, he appeared human, all be it one who had wandered off the set of an early twentieth century mobster movie.

“Now, now. That’s enough of that.” The voice was that of a normal man, low and melodious, yet with a slightly flattened aspect. He replaced his restored tweed cap back on his head.

“What are you?” Kay, seated on the floor, wide eyes still locked onto this impossible being before her, scurried back wildly with her hands and feet, over Carter’s body, when he took a step towards her.

“I am the archangel Michael.” His attractive face creased with the slightest of arrogant smiles. Kay’s back hit against the hard metal wall of, what she now realized with horror, had been a prison.

He grew still, his face blank. His eyes flared blue again. Kay felt a burning heat in her chest swiftly grow from a small pinpoint until it felt as if an entire super nova was exploding under her skin, in her brain. Her view of the room and the figure in front of her was engulfed within the brightest light she had ever seen. Her body arched back in agony, her eyes, her mouth contorted in a silent scream, spewing with an unnatural white fire.

~~~~~

The woman’s now lifeless body collapsed to the floor, prone atop the legs of the other beneath. Michael stretched his shoulders, rolled his neck and tilted his face to look upward through a thousand meters of water above his head. On the lab stereo, one rock song came to an end and a new one began. Michael flicked his eyes back down towards the speakers, feeling a slight twinge of recognition. Back in Black. His lips twitched with approval. In a slight gust of air and a muffled sound of flapping wings, he was gone. A few loose papers sucked from the benchtop by the small vacuum of his departure glided slowly down to the floor. On the stereo, the song continued to play, but nobody was left to hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this chapter ended up being a bit of a chore to write. I hope it isn't a chore to read! The next one is one I have been looking forward to writing from the very beginning, so I hope to get it posted a lot sooner.
> 
> The Back in Black bit is hella cheesy, but I just couldn't resist. You totally know that Michael has picked up on Dean's extensive knowledge of classic rock by now.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life, it seems, will fade away  
> Drifting further, every day  
> Getting lost within myself  
> Nothing matters, no one else
> 
> ~Fade to Black, Metallica

The archangel blinked back into existence on the crest of a low hill covered in sparse green scrub. At the base of the dry, rocky slope was a small compound wrapped in thick walls of brown stone, standing amidst a few scattered palm trees. Those walls had long stood sentry, mutely watching the grasslands retreat and the desert's encroachment, the warring of tribes, the rise and fall of civilizations. But as the weapons of war grew greater, the walls had evidently met their match. A huge, gaping hole had been torn through the face of one wall, the blackened blocks that remained evidence of a powerful explosive blast.

Michael leapt down to this scorched gap. What he saw within was a disappointment to say the least. No lush garden, no vines of green or fruiting trees remained here. Only the shattered, poisoned shell of what had, for millennia, been a seat of life. Michael strode through the desiccated remains until he reached the base of a large tree in the center of the compound. The branches of the tree were perfectly and equally divided on the right and left sides of its great trunk, but there were no leaves on the dry, outstretched arms. No attendants remained to protect this dead husk.

“Fools,” Michael said. “Plan B then.” Without sparing the sad scene a further look, he winged away.

~~~~~

He reappeared on the porch of an imposing white house, covered in vines and sagging in the humidity. Grandiose columns in need of fresh paint stretched away on either side of a great double door. With the hint of a devil-may-care shrug, Michael came to a decision and reached up to politely rap the door knocker.

After a rather unnecessarily long wait, but what were a few minutes to an eternal being, the door creaked open and a wizened face peaked out. From the terrified expression in her eyes, it was clear she knew the man on her porch was no ordinary visitor.

Michael gave a little bow, enjoying his game, and said, “May I come in?" He made his voice charming, seductive. "I have business with your coven.”

Catching a glimpse of his aura, the woman hurriedly made to slam the door shut in his face, but he raised his hand, freezing the door in place without touching it.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he tsked. “Is that any way to treat your better, crone?” With a flick of his fingers, the door blew back on its hinges. Michael strolled nonchalantly through the doorway and past the writhing old woman, thrown with the door against the entryway wall.

Michael stepped, perfectly as ease, down a wood paneled hallway. On either side of him hung long rows of painted portraits depicting numerous women in all varieties of historical dress, a lineage of witches. He did not spare a more than a glance at these memorials to trivial creatures. With an unerring sense of direction, he stopped next to a pair of closed sliding double doors and, with the slightest tilt of his head, listening to frequencies beyond natural hearing. A small, triumphant smile flickered across his lips and he slid the doors open. A group of women was crowded into the library that lay behind. Some were old, some young. Some were dressed as if attending a business meeting, others as if they had just escaped extended captivity in Stevie Nick’s closet. Michael’s eyes crinkled amusedly at that last thought, _Thanks for the mental image, Dean._

The fear of the earlier hag was echoed on the faces arrayed before him. They didn’t appear to know what exactly had presented itself before them, but they could clearly sense he was not to be trifled with.

“Hello,” Michael crooned. He looked around, genially, stopping to lock gazes with a hard-eyed woman who exuded the most power. “I am in need of a very specialized ingredient in your possession. Give it to me and I will be on my way.”

The woman’s eyes grew even harder and, wordlessly, the group of women tightened closer together in front of a large apothecary cabinet. He saw a few hands clutch at hex bags, a few fingers twitch in readiness to cast spells.

“But I haven’t even told you what I want yet. So rude…” Michael sighed. Playing nice with these witches was already becoming tedious. He had other errands to complete and perhaps only a limited time before doing so became more…challenging. Amusements would have wait for later.

He extended his grace out in multiple invisible tendrils, one for each woman. One thought later, they all lay dead, smote by the will of heaven’s greatest warrior. Michael stepped over the fallen corpses to the cabinet. He held his open palm out, listening intently with his fingers, as he scanned it over each door and drawer. He paused to open one and pulled out a small metal box. Rattled it gently next to his ear.

“Interesting,” he intoned before throwing it over his shoulder. His searched on until he reached a small door on the lower right face of the wooden cupboard. Forcing it open, easily breaking both physical lock and warding, he withdrew a soft leather bag. He pulled open the cinched neck of the bag and poured a portion of its contents into his hand. A couple of brownish red fruits rolled into his palm, looking as fresh and ripe as the day, perhaps centuries before, when they had been plucked from the tree. Satisfied, he replaced them in the bag and cinched the neck back tight.

“It’s been a pleasure, ladies,” he nodded his head to the pile of bodies on the floor and, with a beat of his wings, left in pursuit of his next task.

~~~~~

Michael landed in the tiny, darkened bedroom of a villa turned nursing home. Aging plaster flaked off the walls. On one of those walls, a crucifix hung among a cluster of framed pictures full of smiling faces. The wall opposite was taken up by a bookshelf filled with leather-bound volumes.

“And who might you be?” A tired, gentle voice queried in Italian from an arm chair next to the bookshelf.

“I am an angel, Lucca Camilleri” Michael replied in the same language, removing his cap from his head. Though he was a servant of Heaven no longer, there was no need to disrespect another who had honorably wasted his life in the same service.

“Are you now? Then why do you look so familiar? I do not recall meeting any angels before…” the good-humored voice trailed off as the old man scanned through his patchy memories.  “No…I do know you. You’re…Dean Winchester, wasn’t it?”

“Not anymore, priest.”

“You didn’t help me to retrieve the skull of San Pietro, asking nothing in return but my blood? That was a fairly memorable adventure in this poor scholar’s life, I assure you. I haven’t lost that memory to the erosion of old age quite yet.”

“Yes, father. That is why I have come.” Michael paced forward and bent on one knee next to the old man who sat burrowed in the chair, a heavy layer of blankets bundling him against the evening’s chill. Michael lifted one of the man’s bony hands gently, only lightly holding the papery skin. He clasped the thin hand between both of his own and allowed his grace to shine forth softly from his eyes. The priest’s face went slack with awe and his eyes grew wet as a peaceful expression settled across his well-wrinkled face.

“Your place in Heaven is assured.” Michael extended two fingers to place them against the man’s temple. The old priest’s eyes immediately closed in sleep, head nodding off against the upholstered chair back. “For whatever that’s worth,” Michael added. He retook his feet and looked around the shadowed room. Grasping a vase of flowers resting on the sill of a moonlit window, he upended it, unceremoniously dumping flowers and water onto the floor. A twitch of his wrist dropped his archangel blade into his hand.

“Unfortunately, I have to stock up for an uncertain future, father,” Michael explained to the sleeping man. With a slice of his blade, he opened a sizeable cut on the man’s fragile wrist and placed the empty vase below it. By the time the rough pottery jug was full, the flow of blood had slowed significantly. Michael replaced his hat on his head and retrieved the vase.

“God has done us all a disservice, priest. You no less than me.”

A few minutes later, a nurse poked her head in the door to check on her night owl of a patient. In the dim light of the moon, she saw the motionless, bundled form and the dark puddle staining the carpet below his dripping fingers. Shouting a cry for help down the hallway, she burst forward into the otherwise empty room and slid to her knees at the foot of the chair, impotently trying to stem the flow of blood.

~~~~~

Michael landed once more in a gust of wind and a rustling of wings, this time outside a large, abandoned brick building. He walked, not to a doorway, but to a heavy metal grate set into the ground nearby and well-hidden by the overgrown forest. He yanked upwards on the cover. Sigils glowed white and red as they resisted him. His eyes shone blue in the dark. His face tensed as he pulled harder until, with a snap of electricity, the latch gave.

 _Wretched Men of Letters,_ he thought, tossing the hole covering aside in the bushes. He dropped gracefully down to the floor below and proceeded to search through the maze of underground hallways, head casting from side to side like a predator sampling the air for the scent of prey.

Finally, he came to a room containing a large altar-like table hung with chains. He brushed his fingers along the altar’s marble top, passing his gaze swiftly but carefully around the room. Lifting his fingers, he saw the smears of dust left on them by the long untouched surface and his mouth pursed into a small moue of disgust. Unhappily left with no option but to clean his dirty fingers on his coat, he bent to open a small door in the pedestal of the table, careful to avoid brushing his suit against the filthy marble. The cupboard inside was bare and just as dust-covered as every other surface in the deserted chapter house. He stood and strode carefully back the way he had come to avoid stirring up any further dust onto himself by departing directly from the chamber.

~~~~~

Michael followed the trail he had picked up at the Providence Capitulum to where it ended in Lebanon, Kansas. He wasn’t really surprised. Based on Dean’s memories, he would have had to come here for the last item on his list in any case. He touched down some distance from the Men of Letters bunker, careful to avoid detection. Not by the sentries concealed in the nearby woods. He sniffed in derision. They might as well have been wearing flashing neon arrows pointing at their heads. No, what concerned him was the new frequencies he could sense in the bunker’s arcane defenses. Someone had obviously upgraded the warding since his last visit. One particularly clever addition almost seemed to pulse in resonance with his grace. Had Sam Winchester managed to develop a warding specific to Michael himself?

 _Cunning boy_ , Michael smiled. _Well_ , the former commander of Heaven’s host reflected, _there were certainly more ways to achieve one's objectives than an all out, frontal assault._

~~~~~

Dean slouched on a stool in Rocky's Bar, nursing a tumbler of bourbon. Metallica's Fade to Black blared out from the juke box. Pamela wasn’t there. Dean missed her a little, but couldn't bear to pretend the Pamela from this bar was anything but Memorex, and Michael-tainted Memorex at that. As always, unending, the rain continued to pour outside.

Michael walked in from the rain, dry as a bone, and glanced over at the juke box. “A little loud,” he raised his voice over the music. “Do you mind turning it down?”

The music softened. Dean continued to slouch over his glass, but his shoulders grew tense.

“Thank you.” With a dramatic sweep of his overcoat, Michael took a seat on the stool next to Dean. He looked thoughtfully at Dean and then over at the juke box, listening to the lyrics for a few moments.

“Maybe this is something I can work with. It's certainly better than I the time I caught you listening to…Night Moves?... on repeat and crying over Sammy into your beer.”

“Shut up, dick,” Dean retorted, but he didn’t put much energy behind it.

Michael, with long practice, ignored him. “Something has changed, Dean. Haven't you noticed?” He tapped a single finger against the bar top with an expectant air.

Dean finally looked up to meet Michael's eyes, his own green eyes, gazing back at him. “Do you have to look like that all the time?” he grumbled, not yet willing to bite at whatever bait Michael was dangling in front of him. Michael obviously wanted something and Dean was happy to deny it from him as long as possible. “How about switching it up a little? Would a Victoria’s Secret model now and again kill you?”

“How tiresome, Dean. This face suits my purposes, as you very well know. Also,” he preened, “I like it. Would you rather I looked like this?”

Sam’s forehead was wrinkled with worry and his puppy dog eyes beamed moistly back at Dean.

“Or this?”

His father’s angry frown…

“What about…”

Jo’s cocksure grin and poorly disguised yearning…

Kevin’s burnt out eyes…

Lisa, blood running down her forehead…

“Dean. I thought we bored of that game long ago.” To Dean's relief, his own face reappeared. “We have more interesting topics to discuss. For instance, and I am surprised it has taken you this long, do you know where we are at this moment?”

Dean looked at him quizzically. “Are you joking? Do you even know how to joke?”

“Yes, I know how to joke and no, I am not joking, Dean. I know you prefer to hide in your mind these days rather than survey the less than vast extent of our shared kingdom, but have you truly not realized?” Michael's smile managed to be both sinister and ecstatic at the same time. It was a disturbing change from the blank slate his face usually presented and Dean felt a sinking pit open up in his stomach. Michael opened his eyes wide in a mockery of innocence and gave his head a small bewildered shake, play-acting confusion. “Box? What box?”  


~~~~~

Dean was lying on his back in the box, sinking down into the water. He stared up at the metal lid inches from his nose, trying to control his fear. His heart was beating fast against his chest. His breath was rapid, his blood pounding in his ears, his lips pulled back in a grimace. It was as bad as all his recent nightmares.

 _Jesus, I can’t…I can’t…_ he couldn’t stop imagining what was going to happen to him. Would he die of dehydration or, more likely, suffocate? Would Michael burst out of that bar fridge and squash him like a bug?

Of the limited paths facing him, that one seemed like the least worst. Better to go out tweaking that asshole’s chain than gasping to death in this fucking coffin. What did it matter at this point anyway? Michael wasn’t going anywhere. Dean sucked air that was already starting to taste used and closed his eyes. He pictured himself back in Rocky’s Bar, the neon lights, the empty stools, the scent of stale beer and salted peanuts. The screwdriver was still wedged into the fridge’s door handle. It was quiet other than the twangy rock song softly playing on the juke box. The constant pounding that had left his brain feeling increasingly bruised these last weeks was momentarily still. Dean walked up to the door and placed his hands on the wooden surface. It had been reassuringly thick when Dean had first locked Michael inside. Now it felt worn away, thin as balsa wood.

 _How many more hits could this thing have withstood?_ Dean wondered at his lucky timing and he was relieved that the answer didn’t really matter anymore. One last deep breath. _No regrets_ , he tried to convince himself. He pulled the screwdriver out of the handle and stepped back, bracing himself, ready to go down swinging.

He took a breath, another. _Well, shit, gonna play it like that, huh?_ He stepped forward and pulled the handle open himself. The door swung open to reveal Michael sitting rigidly upright on stack of supply boxes as if it was a throne rather than a leaning pile of icy cardboard, one leg crossed over the other, foot tapping at the chill air.

“Dean,” he placed both feet down on the floor and stood. Dean retreated judiciously back into the barroom, giving himself more fighting room as the archangel wearing his face and a ridiculous suit exited the refrigerator that had been his prison.

“Why are you freeing me? Afraid to see what remained of your brain pan when I broke through the last of that door?” Michael tilted his chin down, the amusement and confidence sparkling in his eyes belied the previous days of furious bellowing that had reverberated around Dean’s skull.

“Don’t worry,” Dean said, trying for sass. He definitely didn’t need to fake the triumph and relief in his voice. “Just letting you know that I’ve swapped out the drunk tank for super max. Welcome to your next few thousand years, Shawshank.” Dean grinned. As usual, once he got rolling, the snark came more easily, buoying his confidence in the face of near certain death.

Michael’s upper lip twitched and he closed his eyes, cocking his head slightly, listening. Dean didn’t know what he heard, but when his eyes opened again, the amusement was gone, scalding anger in its place.

“You pitiful worm. What have you done?” Dean had never heard his own voice speak with such cold, righteous fury. Michael stalked towards Dean, fists clenched at his sides. Dean took a crouched defensive stance to face his approaching doom. _It’s better this way_ , Dean thought, shoving down his lingering feeling of cowardice at inciting his own quick destruction rather than facing death alone.

Michael easily knocked Dean’s fists out of the way, grabbed Dean’s shoulders and shoved him painfully back against the bar’s beer taps. Michael’s expression was smooth and hard as marble, but his eyes burned. His voice, when he spoke again, was now deadly calm, but deep undercurrents of rage still swirled beneath the surface.

“Did you think you could bait me?” Michael’s lips drew back into a predatory snarl. “That I would crush your pitiful soul into nothingness? Put you out of your misery?” Michael’s snarl grew wider.

“Oh no, Dean.” He laughed with scorn. “As if I would ever harm that precious soul of your’s, my vessel. Do you think me a fool?” Michael picked Dean up and handily threw him back against the wall next to the fridge door. He instantly followed raising his tweed-clad forearm to press it against Dean’s esophagus with crushing pressure.

“No, I would never destroy you, Dean. What good would you be to me then?” Dean didn’t understand. Michael had free reign of his body now, was in command of his vessel. What did he need with Dean’s soul?

Michael smiled with condescension at Dean’s confused, increasingly breathless, expression. “Your friend, Castiel, never bothered to explain how vessels work? Well,” Michael rolled his eyes dramatically, "Castiel never was much for scholarly pursuits. He was always more of a…what’s that phrase again…blunt instrument.”

“No, Dean. I won’t put you out of your misery. Far from it, actually. Apparently, I’ve now got some free time in my schedule. And you, child,” he spat the word, “are all I’ve got to entertain myself.” Dean saw his own features, inches in front of his face, harden. And then he felt the pain.

_Dean._

The calm voice was Michael's, but Michael wasn’t speaking. His lips were twisted in a closed snarl, right there in front of Dean, as he began to sequentially break every joint in Dean’s body.

_Dean._

The voice came again, a touch exasperated. Dean looked hazily past Michael’s shoulder to see Michael seated at the bar. Dean’s thoughts were muddled in agony. His brain couldn’t make sense of two Michaels.

Bar-Michael rapped his knuckles against the wood, clearing his throat loudly. He waved his hand a few times in front of his face to hold Dean’s pained glance.

_Focus, Dean._

Dean blinked, and in that instant the memory’s hold over him was broken. He found himself seated across from Michael, current Michael, at one of the sticky tables against the wall. A fresh beer had been placed before him, but Michael had taken advantage of Dean’s momentary distraction to turn off the juke box, now sitting quiet and dark.

“I thought you spent all your time in here,” Michael waved vaguely around the imaginary bar, “to avoid reliving your memories.” Michael leaned forward, resting his right forearm (the one that had, moments before, been choking the life out of Dean) against the tabletop and drumming the fingers of his hand a few times as if playing piano.

“I realize it's a bit of a shock, but will you please listen to me before you go frittering off again?”

Dean nodded, mute for the moment.

“Yes, well, as I was trying to explain, your cursed box is no more. Despite your best efforts, I walk the earth again.” Dean frowned and made to stand. He had to do something. What the hell could he do? How did this happen?

“Now, now, before you try anything drastic,” Michael held up his hands to gesture that Dean should stay seated. Dean ignored him and upended his chair in a rush to his feet. “I haven’t done anything…much.” Michael’s knowing twitch of a smile did nothing to allay Dean’s suspicion. “Sit down, Dean.” Dean found his chair was back on its feet, waiting, behind him. Reluctantly he sat back down.

“I did visit the Men of Letter’s Capitulum in Providence but someone, probably Sam, has wiped it clean of any trace of the spell those fools used to open a rift, including the Seal and any residuals of the universe they contacted. I’m sure he has collected the remnants of the spear as well. I can’t chase down God without material for the spell to access other universes. I need the Seal of Solomon. All that is currently in Lebanon with Sam.”

“Consider this fascinating wrinkle. I was able to escape the box, therefore your fate has obviously been re-written…again.” Michael thrust his head ever so slightly forward. "Want to guess who was responsible this time?”  Michael tutted, shaking his head. ”Who knows what foolishness Sam has been up to in your absence.” Michael leaned forward.  “Sam has what I want. I can retrieve it the easy way or the hard way, Dean. With the easy way no one gets hurt…” His heavy pause was sufficient to relay what would happen the hard way. “In fact, I’ll do one better. I will leave this whole world alone. I’ll jump right to the next one before I start lighting signal fires for dear old Chuck. What’s one extra universe left standing midst the wreckage in the larger scheme of things?”

Michael casually leaned back in his chair, confident of his leverage. “I want your help, Dean. It’s a good deal.”

“I already know what your deals are worth,” Dean snapped back.

“Well that was before we really got to know each other, wasn’t it? Aren’t we friends now?”

Dean’s face was incredulous.

“Let me put it in perspective for you. You don’t really have a say in this. Your big plan worked for…“ He tilted his head, calculating the locations and movements of the stars. He could see the actual stars, Dean realized, not just some remembered facsimile. “Twenty years. Bravo, really. But I’m out of your box now.” Michael picked a few pieces of invisible lint off his coat sleeve. “Suffice it to say, I will not be going back in and you are coming along for this ride whether you like it or not.” Michael placed both hands flat on the table, staring into Dean’s eyes as he made his closing pitch. “In honor of our past and extensive future relationship, I’m playing nice, Dean. Take it or leave it.”

Dean considered a moment, tracing his fingers around the ring of condensation his beer has left on the scarred wood of the table top. For now, he couldn’t think of any way around it. _Hell, maybe Sammy can._ He took a long chug of his beer and set the mostly empty glass back down. “Chuck always was a bit of a deadbeat dad.” He stood again and rubbed condensation off his hands against the front of his flannel. “Yokoth and Glythur tried to bad touch me. You gonna go tear them a new one?”

Michael smiled and followed Dean to his feet. He met Dean’s eyes, perfectly level with his own. “Sounds like fun. Want in?”  


~~~~~

Dean couldn’t stop staring at the sun, hanging low and orange on the horizon. It was the first sunset he had seen in decades, apparently. It burned his eyes. Eventually forced to close them, an abstract painting of purple, yellow, and red overlapping circles danced against the black insides of his lids. To Dean, starved for years of any physical stimuli, it was the most beautiful thing he could imagine. He was standing in the middle of a thin stretch of beach, only a few yards of steeply slanting stones and sand stretching between the sea and the grassy woods behind him. There was no sign of the box. Dean had no idea how he had gotten there. He was just there and for the moment, that was enough. The air felt cool and humid against his skin. He couldn’t stop himself from gulping it into his lungs. A gentle breeze blew across his lips and eyelashes, tickling the shells of his ears, ruffling his hair. He couldn’t remember ever feeling a more pleasurable sensation.

Birds chattered in the trees behind him and each wave brought the soothing clatter of stones tumbling over stones as they were carried back and forth by the water. The iodine smell of the waves mixed with the fresh scent of green grass and moist earth behind him. Overwhelmed, he collapsed to his knees, relishing even the painful bite of rock against his shins. He dug his fingers deep into the damp sand, pebbles and stones beneath him. Opening his eyes again, he stared at his hands entranced. It wasn’t even sand really, but a lot of tiny rainbow-colored rocks, with the occasional fleck of sea glass.

He could sense Michael’s amusement. _You did it to yourself, Dean._

Dean ignored him and stood, letting the sand gradually fall out between the fingers of his loose fist.

“Okay, I’m ready. Let's go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I add yet another musical cue? Yes I did. Am I a huge nerd that has built up an entire soundtrack for every scene of this fic? Yes I am.
> 
> Wow, I thought this chapter was basically already written and ready to be posted. 4 new scenes and one flashback later and here I finally am. From now on I'm not making any promises about speedy posting. But I have finally gotten the last of the important plot ducks all in a row. This story officially now has a middle, not just a beginning and an end, and is no longer in danger of blowing up in my face. Not sure how many chapters yet, but I won't leave it hanging.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this fic has a time jump, which gave me a cool opportunity to throw a dash of scifi in with the fantasy. I was into it for a bit but, honestly trying to imagine technological updates would mostly just be window-dressing for these later chapters. I'd much rather focus on the characters than the background, so I'm going to leave most of the technology at present day (except for the occasional thing here or there). Sorry if that's a bit jarring. If I'm satisfied with how this whole story works out in the end, I'll probably go back and tighten some things up and can put my Jules Verne hat on and do some retroactive tweaking then.

The hunter sat down on a log. He was nearly at the end of his shift. Winchester had been having them all pull extra guard duty for the last couple of weeks. _Guard duty against angels?_ he wondered to himself. The last angel seen around here was almost a decade ago, before his time, but Winchester had been getting on everyone’s case about angel lore during the daily briefings. _I’ve seen a lot of crazy shit,_ the hunter thought, _but that would take the cake._ After the boredom of standing around the woods all night for two weeks, he’d take angels, bigfoot, anything to break the monotony.

The hunter took a swig from his water bottle and stood, stretching. He’d been at it since before dawn this morning and, with the sun well into the blue sky now, he was good and ready for his shift replacement to get their butt out here so he could go back inside the bunker and catch some sleep.

From his resting place in the trees, he heard the crunch of gravel. Someone was on the road, hopefully his replacement. He picked up his rifle from where it leaned against the log and headed to meet them, peering through the leaves. There was someone there, but they weren’t walking from the bunker door, they were walking towards it.

The hunter quickly raised the rifle butt to his shoulder and, as quietly as he could, stole to the edge of the woods. Across the bunker clearing, he could see his fellow guard, Curtis, who had also noticed their guest, reach the edge of the trees on that side a few moments later.

There was a man standing at the door of the bunker, knocking, of all things. They didn’t get many folks out here. The bunker had the appearance of an abandoned power station, a good excuse to have plenty of fencing and ‘Keep Out’ signs to dissuade visitors or bored teenagers. A few silent hand signals later, Curtis slunk soundlessly back into the trees while the hunter moved cautiously forward. Before he had even left the soft moss of the forest floor to stride across the gravel road, the visitor turned.

He was a natty dresser, you had to hand him that. A three-piece suit of brown tweed, with matching overcoat and some damn fine-looking leather shoes. His short brown hair was a bit of a mess and his tie knot was loosened, but otherwise he could have just waltzed off the cover of a fashion magazine. _Definitely not a hunter_ , was the rifleman’s first thought, _too pretty_. That last gave him momentary pause until he connected where he had seen that pretty mug before, followed by an immediate, excited surge of adrenaline. The clothes weren’t a match, but the man’s features were an exact replica of the photo Winchester had handed out to all the bunker guards. _Finally, gonna see some action!_

“Hey, fellas”, the angel said casually, looking first at the hunter facing him and then over towards the other, still hidden in the trees. “Looks like someone has changed the locks. Don’t suppose you know where I can find Sam Winchester, do you?” From his manner, you’d think he was just a neighbor dropping by to ask for a cup of sugar.

In his peripheral vision, the hunter saw Curtis had abandoned his hiding place in the trees and was approaching, gun raised, from the other side of the clearing. Taking advantage of the angel’s momentary distraction caused by his partner’s movements, he quickly grabbed his lighter out of his pocket, fired it up and tossed it on the ground.

“We’ll be asking the questions, pal,” the hunter said smugly as the flames quickly spread out across the ground to form a number of concentric and intersecting circles across the whole area in front of the bunker’s entrance. The angel, trapped in one of the small areas of bare ground remaining, shifted his left foot away from the flames. “Me, my partner and this here holy oil, that is.”

“Oh, not as stupid as you look, then? Mazel tov,” the angel grinned cheekily. “But also, not as smart as you think.”

The angel tilted his face upward looking up at the patch of bright blue sky visible above the clearing. The hunter heard a few muttered words in incomprehensible tongue. The angel closed his eyes, concentrating, and lowered his face again. When he opened his eyes again, they were shining with a brilliant light. Overhead, the clear blue sky was quickly engulfed by roiling, black clouds, sweeping across the sky with unnatural speed. A volley of thunder cracks rang out overhead. In the swiftly dimming light, the hunter saw the figure smile again.

“Come on, guys. That the best you got?”

That’s when the torrential downpour started.

~~~~~

Sam was sitting in the passenger seat of a pickup truck careening around a series of precarious curves. The driver, Reggie, was singing along to the radio. She had good reason to be happy, Sam figured. It had been a successful hunt. Ghost busted, family saved. But something about it wasn’t sitting right with Sam.

_How exactly does an eighty-year old man, dead the past thirty years, to all appearances happily married with a bunch of kids and grandkids, no history of any trauma whatsoever, all of a sudden become a vengeful spirit?_

This wasn’t the first weird haunting they’d come up against in the last few weeks either. It seemed like there were ghosts popping up everywhere these days. It made Sam uneasy and so he’d asked Reggie to tag along on her latest hunt to see for himself, which just confirmed Sam’s suspicions. He stared out the window at the blur of green trees, lost in worried thought, as the truck sped along the road back to the bunker.

Without warning, like driving through a waterfall, they hit a curtain of heavy rain. _What the….?_ The road ahead was barely visible through the deluge. Glancing out at the sideview mirror, Sam could see the dry road behind, blue sky, bright sunshine.

“Don’t slow down,” he commanded Reggie, who had taken her foot off the accelerator. “We’ve got to get back to the bunker.”

Reggie floored it and the pickup skidded its way down the last mile of curves. As they reached their destination, Sam could make out three figures on the road in front of the bunker door. One of the figures, standing amidst a ring of dying flames, faced off against the other two. Before Reggie had even brought the sliding truck to a complete stop, Sam had jumped out the door, just in time to see the last of the flickering flames extinguished. As suddenly as it had come, the rain stopped.

The wet gravel smoked and steamed. The surrounding trees still dripped, as did Ricky and Curtis, mouths hanging open and soaked to the bone. Beams of sunlight were already starting to break though the dark clouds above. And, there in the middle of it all, stood Dean, perfectly dry, dressed in that old brown suit and coat get up and looking not one day older than Astoria.

At the sight of the latest grey-haired arrival, Dean's brow wrinkled in momentary confusion, but it quickly smoothed and a happy smile spread across his face.

“Hiya, Sammy.”

Sam didn’t know what to think. The expression on his face, the posture, was pure Dean, but Sam would never forget that damned suit or the archangel who wore it.

“Dean? Is that you? Did you manage to keep him locked up all these years?” Even Sam didn’t believe it was possible, but he couldn’t keep the desperate hope out of his voice.

The figure shook his head. “No, Sammy. I told you I couldn't swing it forever. Michael and I have been playing house for a while now.”

Sam made hand signal and the others, the two dripping hunters and Reggie, fanned out, pulling weapons, flasks of holy oil. Sam steeled himself. He stuck his hand into his jacket pocket where he’d been carrying a pair of metal cuffs for the last two weeks.  He didn’t pull them out though, not yet.

“We've been expecting you,” he said as the group prowled closer. Sam's kept voice steely, but his face creased into a pleading pained expression, unfamiliar to the younger hunters around him, but well known to the man before him.

“I'm Dean,” he insisted gently. “But Michael's in here too. Like I said, we're kind of sharing the place.”

Like a cloud passing over the sun, his expression and posture shifted in an instant. A sardonic smile twisted his lips in a face now smooth and cold as a classical statue. “Sam,” the drawled voice was almost Dean's, but the tone was far more melodious.

“Michael,” Sam snapped and tightened his grip on the cuffs in his pocket.

With a mocking, blue glint in his eyes the figure raised his hand and waved his fingers at Sam. Then, just as suddenly as they had disappeared, Dean's familiar green eyes and laugh lines were back.

“We're not here to hurt anyone,” he said in his normal gravelly voice as he pointed his finger directly at the concealed cuffs in Sam's hand. But no sooner had the words left his mouth than, without turning his head, Dean flicked his fingers behind his back and Ricky, who had been stealthily sneaking up, was thrown against a nearby tree trunk. Ricky grimaced and struggled ineffectually, but otherwise looked unharmed. Dean gave an apologetic grin and shrugged. Sam could read his expression as if he had spoken the words out loud, _Dealing with stupid doesn’t count._

Everything about the figure in front of him screamed Dean. Sam wanted more than anything to believe it was him, but his inner logic was hissing warnings not to let his guard down.

“It's great to see you, Sam. You know how much I've missed you.” And Sam couldn’t find the lie in his words. His eyes shone with, apparently, sincere affection.

“My Dean doesn't have angelic powers,” Sam retorted, holding his ground, physically and emotionally. “How do I even know there’s any Dean left in there? For all I know, you’re just Michael, pretending.”

“Well, I can’t prove it to you. He knows all my deepest, darkest secrets. So that rules out super-secret code words.” Dean sighed. “I guess you don’t really know. You’ll just have to have a tiny bit of faith until you can decide for yourself. One way or the other.”

Dean held his hands out passively in front of himself, waiting for Sam to approach with the angel cuffs. “Don't worry. We're not going anywhere until you give us what we came for.”

~~~~~

When the cuffs were safely on, Sam deactivated the bunker’s warding and brought Dean inside. He sent Reggie ahead with word to clear out the curious and give them some space.

“Those are new and improved,” Sam warned, gesturing at the cuffs on Dean’s wrists. “Just like bunker’s warding, we added a little extra, anti-Michael sauce, to the recipe.”

“Yeah, I can feel it. They aren’t very comfortable.”

“If Michael doesn’t like it, he can always vacate,” Sam countered. “Dean, what does he want? Why are you here? I thought we’d have to come hunt you down.”

They were standing alone together in the emptied crow’s nest. “I see you didn’t bother to redecorate,” Dean picked up one of the red and black plastic rings that were always spread out across the map table. “These damn things. I’ve always wondered what the hell they were for…” Sam was about to interject that actually, they did have a purpose, when Dean waved him off. “Nah. After all this time, I prefer the mystery. The Seal of Solomon, Sam. Michael still has it in his head to chase down Chuck. You gotta hand it to him, the dude is persistent. Twenty years and I couldn’t talk him out of it. But he’s given me his word, whatever that’s worth, if you give him the Seal and the residues of other universes you’ve collected, he’ll skip the light fantastic immediately and leave this world alone. Apocalypse averted.”

“And he’ll be skipping town wearing his favorite Dean suit, I presume,” Sam was less than satisfied with this proposal.

Dean just shrugged.

“No deal,” Sam said firmly.

Dean sighed, “That’s what I told him you’d say.”

~~~~~

Dean didn’t even have to ask. Sam brought him straight through the deserted hallways to the garage. He’d sent the majority of the crowd out of harm’s way, and except for some backup waiting elsewhere, they had the place to themselves.

When Dean saw the impala covered in a dusty tarp, he looked at Sam with outrage.

“Baby, what have they done to you?” Dean caressed the car through the cover. Gently pulling back the canvas he seemed relieved to see her as shiny and flawless as always.

“She needed modifications to make her street legal. Carbon capture, biodiesel... I didn’t think you’d want me to “douched her up” so I decided to put her out to pasture. I keep her running with the help of some of the crew and still take her out for a drive every now and then.”

Dean glared at him, with obvious jealousy that any other hands besides his or Sam’s had gotten under Baby’s hood. “Has anyone else driven her, Sam?” he asked and there was no mistaking the ominous warning in his voice.

“Not even Jack, although I didn’t think you’d mind. He just…didn’t want to. He was pretty crushed when you disappeared without saying goodbye, Dean. Not sure he ever really got over it.”

Dean shrugged uncomfortably, “Yeah well…Speaking of Jack, where is he? For that matter, where’s Cas?”

“As far as I know, they’re up in heaven, following Naomi’s marching orders. Actually, I’m a little worried. I’ve been praying to Cas ever since I learned the ma’lek box had been found. No word yet.”

“Well, I’m sure he’ll turn up at some point. It’s not like anything bad can happen to him in heaven.” Dean rubbed at a small spot on the impala’s hood with his coat sleeve, careful not to scratch the paint with his metal cuffs.

“So, speaking of bad things…twenty years trapped with a pissed off archangel…I mean…” Sam trailed off.

“Really?” Dean groaned at Sam’s awkwardly forced segue. “And, are you kidding? I did forty years in hell. Compared to Alistair, even archangels are torture lightweights. It was practically Club Med. He wasn’t too happy at first, but eventually he got bored and gave up. Towards the very end there, we mostly just played pool and ate beer nuts. Biding our time, bickering, ‘til the sun burned out…” Dean drifted off, eyes full of haunted shadows for the briefest of moments before he blinked and it was all easy charm once more.

Sam sincerely doubted it had been as simple as that, recognizing a classic Dean emotional deflection when he saw one, but he resolved not to poke too hard at Dean’s scars…yet. Instead, he came to a sudden decision. It was worth a try, but if this had any chance of working, he needed to move fast. He grabbed Dean’s shoulder.

“Dean. Michael’s archangel blade. Stab yourself with it. Kill Michael. Nick survived. You will too.”

Dean blinked his eyes and, just like that, it was now Michael in front of him. Sam yanked his arm away as if burned. Michael leaned back against the impala’s door. His face had a doll-like stillness that could never be mistaken for Dean. Sam had been counting on a few precious seconds of struggle between them, like he’d seen in the church after Lucifer. Without that, it never stood a chance.

“Sam.” Michael crossed one foot over the other with an elegant deliberateness. “I'm letting Dean take point here, but I think you and I should have a bit of a chat.”

“Dean's still here,” he assured before Sam could follow his swift scowl with further interruption. “Watching, listening. He’s just in the passenger seat for a moment. He'll be back, but only after we two have said what we need to say.”

 _Only when I allow it,_ his implication was clear to Sam.

“Did you think I would just bring my blade here and hand it over to you? You already have one. Isn't that enough?” Michael examined his fingernails with disinterest. “Not that it does you any good, hmm? You’ve had plenty of time to study it by now. Surely you are aware the blades require unrestricted archangel grace to wield?” He lifted his wrists and turned the cuffs back and forth in front of him as he dismissively studied the symbols carved into the metal. “These clever little things restrict my grace enough that my blade is near useless to me, or Dean, while I wear them. Just as Lucifer's blade is useless to you.”

“So please, forget your plan,” his slight smile was tinged with scorn. “I control the flow of traffic in here,” he fanned his fingers in the direction of his head. “The millisecond I sense Dean's intentions turn in a direction not to my liking, well…” he broke off and shrugged nonchalantly. He turned his attention to the side view mirror of the impala, wiggling it back and forth.

“So,” Michael looking up again, “now that we understand each other…” He blinked slowly and Dean’s tense mouth and creased brow line returned. Dean immediately moved the mirror back in its proper place.

“Sorry Sammy, I'm doing the best I can with a crappy hand here,” Dean’s face begged for Sam’s understanding, “but I’m still stuck playing by Michael’s rules.”

“For now,” Sam insisted earnestly. He still had plenty of cards up his own sleeve.

~~~~~

A skinny kid in a sheepskin-lined corduroy jacket came in and bent to whisper in Sam’s ear, side-eyeing Dean the whole time. It was the same genius from earlier who’d thought he was hot shit until he had ended up eating tree bark. Dean waggled his eyebrows at him seductively when he straightened and began glaring straight in Dean’s direction.

Sam sighed and stood reluctantly. “I’ve got some stuff I need to see to. When it rains, it pours, you know? I’ll be back in a bit. In the meantime, Ricky, here,” Sam pointed his thumb in Corduroy Jacket’s direction, “will keep an eye on you.”

Dean gave a small snort, “Can’t have a big, bad archangel wandering around without supervision, now can we? Even with these?” Dean lifted his hands up.

“Dean…” It was good to see that, no matter the grey hairs and wrinkles, Sam had not lost the knack of making that prissy little annoyed face of his. _Feels like home_ , Dean grinned.

Sam scurried off to conspire with his hunters. Dean and his new shadow were walking back through the hallway toward the library when a head peaked around the corner in front of them. With a shy smile, the rest of the woman’s body followed the head and approached closer. Something about those big doe eyes and that brown hair tickled Dean’s memory.

“Maggie…” it dawned on him. Like Sam she was disconcertingly older. It was jarring, but Dean supposed he was going to have to get used to it.

“Dean, I’m so glad!” She came to a stop in front of him, and after a moment of indecision, impetuously grabbed his hands, giving them a warm squeeze. “Sam already sent the other teachers and trainees away to another chapter house, but I wanted to stick around a bit, just in case,” she smiled.

“So, Sam convinced you to join his merry band, huh?”

“Yeah. I help teach the trainees lore. I tried hunting for a while, but it was always a bit of a square peg in a round hole situation. It’s good to see you, Dean. We must all look so old to you,” she smiled. “And you haven’t aged a day. You look just like that first day, when you and Sam saved my life.” That, of course, was the day Sam had died, dragged off into a dark cave to bleed to death. Dean kept his smile on his face, but it grew a little hollow.

“Well, uh, glad to see things haven’t turned out too bad for you.”

“Not at all!” Maggie chattered on. “I was happy to stay and help. Some of the others,” she waved her hand, “decided to go back and keep fighting the good fight, but what was back there for me anymore?” Dean realized she was talking about the Apocalypse World they had rescued her from. She continued, “A bunch of us stayed here to help Sam.”

“Maggie, how did the others manage to return?” Maggie seemed to suddenly realize she had said more than she was supposed to. Her eyes flicked worriedly over to the hunter attentively leaning against the wall behind Dean. With one last squeeze of his hands, her eyes looking at his chin now rather than meeting his own, she muttered something about needing to catch up with her students and hurried off.

Dean could sense Michael’s interest was peaked, _I told you Sam was playing with universes and fate, Dean._

Dean ignored him, and continued on to the library, his guard stalking behind, but it worried him. It wasn’t like this would be the first time Sam had thought the ends justified some rather questionable means.

Dean arrived in the empty library. If Sam hadn’t been exaggerating the size of his organization, he had really emptied the place out. Not a completely dumb move when you decided to bring a potential walking time bomb inside. Dean perused the shelves and found some new additions authored by the one and only Sam Winchester. Nothing on fate and alternate universes, though. _Must keep that locked up,_ Dean thought and awkwardly, with his cuffed hands, carried a stack of Sam’s books back to a table. _Time to see some of what he’s been up to._

To Corduroy Jacket, “You might as well relax, buddy. I’m not going anywhere.”

~~~~~

Dean was still flipping through the books when Mary arrived.

“Dean!”

She rushed in, a happy look on her face, eyes brimming with tears. She held out her arms as she approached to pull him into a hug. He stood to greet her, but his hands were trapped down at his sides by the cuffs. He shrugged an apology. Instead of hugging him, when she noticed the cuffs, she grasped his upper arms

“What the hell are these?” confused and angry, she looked accusingly over at Corduroy Jacket.

“What, Sam didn’t tell you? I still have an archangel riding shotgun. Sam’s just taking precautions,” Dean said.

She pulled him to her in a fierce hug, her eyes shooting daggers over his shoulder at the young guard, who shifted his weight awkwardly back and forth under her gaze.

“You can go now,” She snapped at the guard. “I’ll stay with him.” To Dean, “Sam told me you were back, when I called in, but he didn’t give me any details. You doing okay?”

Dean was impressed. Mary looked good, sinewy and strong. Tough, like Linda Hamilton in T2. No wonder his guard fled with his tail between his legs. She had a gun holstered at her waist and the bottom of her pant leg bulged with what was probably a pretty large knife.

Dean smiled and ignored her question. “Coming back from a hunt?” he asked.

“A werewolf pack near New Orleans. A few hauntings, here and there.”

Dean sat back down. She looked surprised to see the stack of books open in front of him. “Hey, I read!. Not like I’ve got a lot of freedom of movement here to do much else,” he gave his cuffs a rattle.

Mary, well familiar with the disorientation of suddenly being dropped into the future, volunteered to catch Dean up on some of what he has missed the last twenty years. She evidently decided a little sugar would help the medicine go down and when Sam finally came back, Dean had been sitting through about an hour and a half of late-night talk show monologues. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“I’d cook you guys dinner,” Dean offered, desperate to escape the topical humor, “but… you know.” He held his hands out and wiggled his fingers.

“Sorry, Dean. It’s not you.” Sam had that trademark, pained expression his face again, turned up eyebrows, wrinkled forehead, look in his eyes that said ‘what a cruel world’.

 _Some things never change,_ Dean thought with a guffaw. He ignored Sam’s questioning look. “I know, Sam. Don’t worry about it. But I haven’t eaten in like two decades. So, who is going to feed me?”

Mary smiled with a secret she was happy to finally share. “Well, when Sam told me you were back, I figured you’d be wanting some pie. I picked up a few on my way in. Do you want apple or boysenberry?” She smiled, “Or both?”

“You know me,” Dean winked at her.

“Well, just leave some for the rest of us,” she laughed. “I’ll go get some plates.” She headed off in the direction of the kitchen.

Sam sat down with Dean at the table.

“It’s funny. Mom’s finally older than me again. I guess there are some plus sides to being Rip van Winkle. Now I know how Mom felt when she came back. There’s a lot I’ve missed, huh?” He gestured toward the stack of books from earlier, “Found some of your textbooks, professor.”

“Yeah, I don’t get out in the field too much these days. I’ve been pretty busy running things here and getting the next generation of the Men of Letters ready. Can’t let this all disappear when we’re gone, right? We’ve made a lot of progress in clearing out the worst of the monster enclaves. And not just us here. Claire’s got her own her team of hunters out in Michigan.”

Dean asks, “Then you’re kinda like the British Men of Letters, but less murdery, I hope?”

Sam laughed, “A bit, I guess.”

“So, Claire is good? Jody? Donna? The others?”

Sam grimaced, “Yeah, Claire and the other girls are good. Donna retired from policework and hunting. She spends all her time up at her cabin these days, fishing and welding these enormous iron sculptures that she sells online,” Sam shook his head in disbelief as if he were the one hearing this strange fact, instead of the one delivering it. “Jody…well, Jody died about ten years ago. Hunt gone bad.”

“Damn it…” Dean’s shoulders drooped. He should have expected that all the news of his little extended hunter family couldn’t possibly be good, but that one hurt. Jody was the warmest person he had ever met, hunter or no. “Well,” Dean cleared his throat, sat a little straighter and tried to change the subject before his eyes teared up. “Looks like you’ve done a real good job here. I’m proud of you, little brother.”

Sam frowned.  He shifted his weight in the chair uncomfortably. “Dean…” he hesitated, not quite knowing how to start.

Dean waved his hands in front of him, dismissively. “Sam,” he voice was a low, firm warning, but Sam plunged ahead anyway.

“No, Dean, let me speak. When you went into the box, I promised you I would find a way to fix this. And I have been working on it non-stop since then. I’ve made a lot progress…”

Dean cut him off. “That’s good, Sam, but maybe you shouldn’t tell me.” He pointed towards his head. “I’m not very good at keeping secrets these days.”

Sam hesitated a moment. “Okay,” he nodded, but his eyes drilled into Dean’s, still trying to convey with his thoughts what he couldn’t speak.

 _As if it would make any difference_ , Michael’s amused comment buzzed inside Dean’s ear, like a mosquito.

Dean shook his head with a slight grimace of annoyance. _Shut up. This is my time. Remember our “deal”?_

Michael snorted and Dean could sense his withdrawal further into the reaches of his own mind. He released a puff of breath he’d been holding.

Sam looked at Dean inquiringly, but Dean waved him off. “Don’t worry about it. Loads of laughs having a douche angel lodged in your head.” Dean changed the subject. “Billie’s book, Sam. You read it.” Sam shifted uncomfortably. “It said I stayed in the box until the sun burned out. None of the other books said anything about me getting out of that box. What happened to change that?”

“I’ve been doing some experimenting,” Sam said.

“Experimenting, how exactly? Billie said my books were all re-written when we came back from Apocalypse World. How did you manage it? You been messing around with other universes? Did you open another rift?”

“Not exactly,” Sam demurred. Mary returned from the kitchen and Sam leapt up to help her with her load, snatching at the opportunity to change the subject.

~~~~~

While Dean worked on demolishing the pies, Mary and Sam compared notes on recent hunts. It didn’t take long before the two realized everyone had been on a hell of lot of haunting cases lately. Something was definitely wrong. Sam studied Dean, suspiciously. _It was just too much of a coincidence._

“Dude, it wasn’t me…him. It wasn’t us! I just got sprung. How can I possibly be responsible for ghosts getting feisty weeks ago?”

“Mom, can you help take lead on this?” Sam looked over at Dean, “I’ve got enough problems on my plate at the moment.”

“Hey!” Dean protested. Sam threw him a disbelieving “Are you seriously try to say you're not a problem?” look and Dean responded with his own dignified “No ,I am not a problem, I’m a human being” face.

Mary laughed at her boys and promised to gather the bunker hunters and coordinate with Claire and the others to figure out what was causing this recent haunting outbreak and take care of it. “Don’t worry, Sam. We’ll handle it.”

Just as she was standing, a commotion rang out from the nearby crow’s nest.

Castiel burst through the bunker doorway, still wearing the same old suit and trench coat, a few protesting hunters trailing in his stormy wake. _Finally!,_ Sam thought, relieved to have one less thing to worry about. Dean stood and started to smile at his friend, but his smile quickly died as Cas thundered angrily down the stairs and straight towards the group of Winchesters.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean began, but Cas immediately cut him off.

He stabbed the air accusingly toward Dean, “What have you done to them?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did this transition chapter end up being my longest chapter yet?! I'm a little curious how the pacing reads to someone who hasn't been staring at it for days. Does it drag too much?
> 
> Edit note: I just gave Reggie (Regina) a pronoun sex change. I meant to have some women hunters running around too, but I got a little confused between Reggie and the hunters in the woods during some last minute edits.


	6. Chapter 6

“What have you done to them, Michael?” Cas repeated, facing off against Dean and Sam as they stood side by side, their mother nearby, in the bunker library.

“Cas,” Sam interjected, taking a small step forward, placing himself between what he hoped was his brother and the angel. “What are you talking about? Who are you talking about?”

Cas frowned in disapproval, his eyes narrow with distrust. “The angels,” although he spoke in response to Sam’s question, his eyes bored into the archangel before him. “What have you done to them? Where are they?”

“Why is everyone blaming everything that goes wrong these days on me?” Dean responded ruefully. “First off, Cas, buddy, I’m not Michael…not really anyway. I’m still me, thanks for asking. And second, I don’t know what the hell you are talking about. What angels?”

Cas studied Dean a moment, his brow furrowed. He took a breath and collected himself. “Dean.” He repeated flatly, expressing neither belief nor disbelief. “And yet Michael remains. I can see him clearly. You expect me to believe that he is allowing ‘Dean’,” Dean could hear the air quotes around his name, “to control this vessel?”

Dean sighed, a little tired of repeating himself. “We’re taking turns.” When Cas opened his mouth with a questioning look on his face, Dean plowed on. “What happened to angels that has your panties in such a bunch?”

“I wear boxers, not panties,” he said in a serious tone, “and they are missing. Three of them, to be exact. They have left heaven and are not responding to our inquiries. We cannot locate them.”

 “Hold on a sec, Cas.” Sam jumped in. “I’ve been praying to you for weeks, for weeks about Dean and Michael. You remember, Michael, right?” Sam gestured towards Dean. “The archangel who wants to burn our world to the ground?”

Dean held up his imprisoned hands as if in surrender. “I told you we’re not doing that anymore… I hope,” he finished lamely. Sam threw him annoyed glace and turned back to Cas.

“Now you have three AWOL angels,” he went on, “and all of a sudden, here you come, worried about what Michael has been up to?”

Cas ignored Sam’s indignation, “With three angels missing, Heaven is down to only six remaining, six and a half if you include Jack. That is insufficient to maintain Heaven’s integrity. I’ve had my hands full helping prevent the collapse of Heaven.” He looked at Dean for a moment and then back to Sam again. “You have spent half your life devoted to defeating Michael,” Cas paused to focus his gaze intently at Dean and although he continued addressing Sam, his words were obviously meant for the archangel as well. “You had things well in hand, Sam. I knew you could handle him.”

Mary hung back, quiet and watchful, during all of this. At some point, she had pulled an angel blade out from under her jacket. She was currently engaged in using its sharp point to chip away at the edge of a nearby library table, her eyes fixed intently on Castiel. She was definitely not the warm figure he remembered from his long-distant childhood, but for all her faults, Dean had to admit, twenty odd years of knowing Cas and she looked ready to stab him through if he made a move on her archangel-possessed son. Dean wasn’t really surprised. She was a Winchester, after all.

Cas continued, “Or at least that’s what I thought. At first we did not realize what was happening. Sariel and Anael went missing first. He comes and goes as he likes, regardless of Naomi’s orders. And Anael has always resented her forced return to heaven. She would have rather continued her own hedonistic pursuits,” Cas’ look of disgust conveyed his opinion of Anael. “We had our hands full trying to reinforce heaven’s foundations as best we could until they could be located. We thought it was a discipline problem. It was not until Paschar also disappeared that we realized something was not right…And that Sariel had gone missing shortly after your prayers about Michael had begun.” Cas turned to stare accusingly back at Dean and the archangel looking back through his eyes.

 _What would I want with your pitiful brethren, Castiel?_ Dean could overhear Michael’s scornful reply over what he realized must be angel radio. This felt different though, like a private frequency. _This world’s bedraggled excuse for a heavenly host is beneath my concern. I have more worthy interests to pursue._

Cas frowned in response. Dean looked intently back at Cas, silently willing his friend to believe what he and his unwanted passenger were telling him. Sam looked back and forth between the two, sensing he was missing something.

“Cas,” Sam broke in, “You said you have been trying to reinforce heaven. Have any souls been slipping through the cracks?” With a final squinty glare in Michael’s direction, Cas turned to look at Sam. “We’ve been getting a hell of a lot of weird hauntings popping up on the radar these days. I think your problem and our problem might be related.”

Cas’ brow furrowed. “Yes. In spite of our best efforts, heaven’s boundaries have grown porous. We’ve tried to fight the seepage of souls as best we could, but with each angel that goes missing, it becomes more difficult. Even my being here worsens the problem. I must return soon.” He paused, knowing his next words would not be well received. “I need your help to find the missing angels and, hopefully, return them to heaven.”

“Are you serious, Cas! Michael has been released,” Sam waved his hand in Dean’s direction.  “I’ve already got my team spread thin dealing with ghosts, and now you bring me missing angels, a collapsing heaven and another impending apocalypse?”

Mary gently grabbed Sam’s arm and spoke low in his ear, although considering that the other two people in the room had angelic hearing, there was little point in her attempt at discretion.

“Sam,” she murmured, “Go on. We’ve got this.” She jerked her head back towards where Reggie was hovering in the crow’s nest, having trailed in behind Cas and now trapped between wanting to flee and not wanting to bring attention to her presence. “Help Dean. Help Castiel.”

“If that even is Dean,” Sam mused, but Dean was relieved that he sounded less sure in his suspicion than he had earlier outside the bunker. That tiny kernel of hope had apparently landed in fertile ground and sprouted.

Dean felt himself being dragged backward and the bright presence that was Michael surged forth, expanding, squeezing him out of the way. Dean felt immobilized and separated from the world by an immense, invisible distance. His senses retained the archangel sharpness to which he was quickly growing accustomed, but everything felt flattened, as if his whole world had become two-dimensional. He saw the scene before his eyes as if through a television. The sounds in his ears were as clear as ever, but slightly muted and rang with a hollow, tinny echo. He felt his body move, no longer connected to his will. The first instant was always scary, when he shifted through space with no control and idea what was going to happen. It was a perpetual feeling of losing his balance, that unsteady instant when his muscles lost the battle and gravity took over. Like a marionette, his arms moved under a command not his own, rising up to straighten his collar.

“Castiel,” Dean heard Michael’s smooth voice issue from his own chest. He still sensed each miniscule movement Michael made with his body, the vibration of his throat as he spoke, the blink of his eyelids, the rise and fall of his chest with each breath, and each was a violation. “Why do you insist on running around in that soulless, rag doll of a vessel? Don’t you find it…limiting? If you got a new one, your capabilities wouldn’t be quite so subpar. Perhaps you wouldn’t even need to beg a human to solve your problems for you.”

Cas didn’t lose a beat at the sudden change in conversational partner, “For all the thousands of years I have existed, what I did to Jimmy and his family will always be my greatest regret. I will not do that to another soul ever again.” As Cas spoke, he stared intently back at Michael, as if trying to reach through to Dean. Even tucked away, Dean felt the warmth and care in his friend’s gaze.

Cas continued on, “Although you are older and more powerful, brother, you are not necessarily wiser.”

Michael was not obtuse to the breadth of Cas’ intended audience and Dean felt his lips bend in a small crooked smile. “That’s all very touching, Castiel, but I am just working within the rules that GOD,” Michael leaned into the word with obvious emphasis, “himself laid out for us.”

Cas frowned, a furrow again appearing between his brows, but before he could respond, Sam called his name and waved him over. “You two stay here,” Cas said and walked towards Dean’s brother.

_Well, your little angel is loyal, for all that he is a sentimental fool. If he represents the best this depleted host has to offer, I wouldn’t place any bets on the continued existence of your heaven._

As clear as day, Dean could hear Cas and Sam’s murmured conversation. Why did they insist on whispering together when they must know the archangel could hear them as if they were right there whispering in his ear?

“Cas, is it really him? Is that Dean in there?”

“It certainly appears so,” Cas replied. “Although, I can’t be sure without reading his soul.” He hesitated a moment, “I do not think Michael will allow me close enough to do that. I told you, Sam, that Michael would not destroy Dean’s soul willingly. I do believe that Dean is still in there, somewhere. The question remains….” Cas’ gravelly voice droned on, but Dean was no longer listening.

~~~~~

Instead he was lying prostrate in his all too familiar three by seven prison. The ceiling of his little world, inches from the tip of his nose, bore numerous overlapping scratch marks, some of them wet with blood, but he could not see them. The darkness surrounding him was absolute and dense, making the space feel even smaller. Dean rested his torn finger tips, fingernails bruised and split, against the evidence of earlier frenzied assaults. He clenched his fists tightly, ignoring the shooting pain in his fingers.

It was completely useless, but he lashed out with his limbs, his arms and feet crashing against the walls of the box, desperate but ineffectual. Sobs wracked his whole body. Tears leaked from his eyes, unheeded. Who was there to see, to care? He couldn’t think beyond escape, knowing it was impossible but existential instinct drove him to try.

Time had lost all meaning to him. Every moment felt stretched into eternity. He could have been in the box five days, five years or fifty years, he had no idea. He tried to calm himself, dragging in shuddering breaths even though there was no air to fill them, stilling his limbs. There was no exit, no escape. He had made sure of it himself.

He rolled a little to one side and brought his arm underneath his body to reach the back pocket of his jeans. Fumbling painfully, he removed the small folding blade that he was never without, that had saved his life so many times before. Eyes open but useless in the dark, he brought the knife up closer to his face and opened it.

If Michael wouldn’t kill him…

Suddenly his eyes were filled with intense light. He shut them quickly, blinded. Slowly, slowly, he cracked them open in the narrowest of slits. Once they adjusted and the pain receded, he saw blue sky and wispy white clouds hanging high in the atmosphere. Not quite so far above his head, the gently waving, green leaves of a tree. Dean was lying on his back, something soft under his neck and shorts-clad legs.

Dean looked over and saw his mother seated next to him, on a blanket spread out on the grass halfway in the shade of a large old elm. They were in the backyard in Lawrence. Baby Sammy was napping in a shady corner near the trunk, wedged in by a few pillows. Dean was stretched out on his back in the sun, his belly full and the taste of peanut butter and jelly lingering in his mouth. He had been gazing sleepily up at the sky, while his mother, seated cross legged next to him, brushed his hair off his forehead, trying to sooth him into a nap as well.

“It’s all about souls, Dean,” came his mother’s smiling voice, her soft fingers gentle against his forehead. “They’re the most valuable things in my universe and, apparently, your’s as well.” Dean wanted to lurch upright, anger rising up at Michael’s invasion and perversion of a precious memory, but his mother’s fingers, Michael’s fingers, held him in place as easily as holding down a piece of paper.

“Why do you think God made man, Dean?” the female voice continued.  “Why do you think heaven and hell are locked in a constant battle over them?” The fingers returned to their gentle ministrations. “I was one of the first of his creations and I stood witness to the birth of all that came after. God pulled an infinitesimal amount of energy from everything in the world he had created and from it made the souls of man. They are pure energy. An energy for which heaven is a container, for God's sole use according to his whims.”

“Haven’t you ever wondered why angels must take a vessel to walk the earth?” Dean didn’t speak and Michael went on, not expecting him to. “I assure you it is not to protect the delicate senses of all you lowly creatures wiggling in the dirt. Let me put it in simple terms for you, Dean. Heaven contains a great power source, a million suns worth of energy and angels are plugged into it at all times. But if you unplug your lamp and take it outside, it doesn’t work, does it? You need a portable source of power. And that’s what you all are, Dean. Walking, talking duracels. Each angel needs his very own mobile power pack, otherwise we just don’t work according to manufacturer’s specifications. Take your friend Castiel, for instance. Since his vessel lost its soul, he’s a mess. His powers are erratic and growing weaker and weaker by the day. Closing off heaven only made it worse. I’d barely even consider him an angel at this point,“ Michael shook his head with pity. “He is an abomination and an embarrassment to his kind.”

“And that’s where you come in, Dean. You are my Sword, my perfectly crafted weapon. And your soul is part and parcel of that. With you, I can access far more of my innate capabilities than ever before on this plane of existence. It is like no other vessel I have ever experienced, a precious gift. And now that you belong to me, I will never kill you nor will I allow you to die. If you did, your soul would depart and you would become useless.” Michael’s fingers tucked a stray lock of hair behind Dean's small ear. “If you had known that, would you have been quite so eager to lock yourself up in here with me?” The corners of his mother’s lips bent upwards in a gentle smile.

Dean barred his teeth, and tried again to move, a growl in this throat. “Shhh,” she whispered, restraining him with one hand while placing a finger to her lips. “You’ll wake Sammy.”

One of those fingers slid down the bridge of his four-year old nose and gave a tender tap to the still button-ish tip. “I know it has been a bit rough for you, Dean. I am sorry. I have not been going about this in the most…constructive way. I was trying to break your spirit, but what good is a war horse without spirit? What is needed is to break the beast’s will, acclimate it to your hand and teach it to channel all that fight in the direction you want it to go.” Dean couldn’t move, but his eyes grew wide in distress.

“And let’s not kid ourselves, Dean. This wouldn’t be the first time you have broken. I do admit that you have been far more difficult than I anticipated. But after a few false starts, I see now that any vessel worthy of being my Sword would not be easily forged. In a way, I am honored by the challenge.” Michael smiled. “True challenges have not been many in my existence, Dean. And luckily for us, I now have plenty of time in which to perfect my craft.”

A feeling of dread shivered down Dean’s spine. “But you’re stuck in here until the end of time, until the sun dies. I’m no use to you anymore,” he protested, and his voice was that of the small boy he had been so long ago.

“The death of the sun is not the end of time, Dean. Maybe the earth won’t survive it, but I will. And I can wait that long, if necessary.”

The shiver of dread swelled and grew into something worse.

“Forever isn’t that bad, Dean. You’ll get used to it.”

~~~~~

Dean came back to himself, heard his brother and Castiel’s whispered arguments.

“You know,” Dean interrupted, shaking off the uneasy haze of his memories. “With heaven understaffed and Sammy’s hunters busying chasing down Casper and pals, an archangel’s powers would come in pretty handy, don’t you think?”

Sam immediately responded with an emphatic, “No!”  and Dean could hear Michael’s disgusted refusal, a perfect echo of Sam’s, in the back of his head. But Cas remained silent with a considering look on his face.

Michael’s voice the back of Dean’s head was scathing. _What do I care if your pitiful shadow of a Heaven collapses? I will not serve as blood hound to a lowly human and whatever angelic abomination Castiel has made of himself._

Dean said, “Give me a minute, guys. I gotta take care of something." He closed his eyes, face going blank. The others were left to confusedly look at each other and back at Dean’s still form.

~~~~~

Dean and Michael stood facing each other in Rocky’s bar, mirror images except Dean was now back in his standard uniform of flannel and denim. Michael’s tie was knotted, fixed with a pin, and his flat cap was back covering his neatly parted hair.

“Dean,” Michael began. “Let’s not get distracted, shall we?”

“No,” Dean cut him off. “There is no way I am going to let you skip out just before everything goes to shit here. We have to help fix this first.”

“We had a deal, Dean.”

“And what exactly is in it for me if the world I’m trying to protect self-destructs on its own instead of you blowing it to hell? Makes no difference to me. Dead is dead. I am not letting that happen.”

“Are you trying to change our terms, Dean?” Michael asked, dropping his chin and leveling his gaze at Dean.

“You want your damn Seal or not? My help has a price and you are going to pay it, you son of bitch. The terms of the deal are changing. I am changing them.”

“You and what walk in fridge, Dean?” Michael flicked his eyes towards the piece of wall beside the bar where the door to his earlier prison had been located. It was just empty wall now. Dean concentrated a moment and the refrigerator door reappeared briefly before disappearing again.

“Not this time, champ.” Michael gave a slight shake of his head, amusement dancing in his green eyes.

“Fine,” Dean said, undeterred. He stuck his hand in the empty left back pocket of his jeans. Another brief moment of concentration and it was empty no longer. Dean pulled out a pair of angel cuffs identical to the pair he was currently wearing out in the real world. “One cage is as good as another.” With a flick of his wrist, Dean opened one side of the cuffs.

“Now there’s a bit of that spunk that made you such a boil on the ass of every being unfortunate enough to cross your path,” Michael’s voice was fond. “I knew you were holding out on me,” he grinned.

“But no cage you can imagine into existence is going to hold me anymore, Dean.” With a snap of his fingers, the cuffs were banished back into whatever non-existence Dean had summoned them from. “I’ve resided in this noggin of yours long enough now. Anything you can do, I can do bet….”

In the middle the last word, Dean took a swing at the archangel, who turned his torso away to dodge it, smooth and unhurried. The missed punch threw Dean slightly off balance and Michael took advantage, darting in to grab Dean’s shoulder and pull it further forward, using Dean’s momentum against him to bring him down hard onto to the floor.

Michael was smug, but if he knew Dean’s tricks by now, Dean knew his as well. Dean was ready, controlling his tumble into the feet of a nearby table. He quickly rolled over onto his shoulder and grabbing the leg of a nearby chair, swung it round to crash it into Michael’s lower legs.

The archangel lost his footing and grabbed at the table to stop from joining Dean on the floor. Dean was already scrambling up, pushing against the floor to launch himself into Michael, going for a tackle. But, again, Michael was ready and when Dean hit him, he dropped to one knee, clamped onto one of Dean’s wrists and threw him bodily over his back, where he landed in heap on the floor.

“You want to play with the furniture, Dean?” he asked as he too grabbed a chair and brought it down, shattering over Dean’s head and shoulders where he thrashed on the floor trying to get into a more defensive position. It left Dean seeing stars, but he grabbed at Michael’s nearby leg. Before he could pull himself upwards for a strike at Michael’s groin, a strong hand clamped down on his neck, lifting him up and slamming him against the nearest wall.

“I told you, Dean, we made a deal and we are sticking to it. You will help me acquire the Seal and then we will be on our way.” The grip on Dean’s throat tightened. “And you brother and friends will still be alive to try and rescue themselves from the clusterfuck you monkeys have made of this world…without you.”

“No,” Dean insisted, rasping through the iron grip on his larynx.

“Dean…” Michael’s voice was filled with annoyance.

“No.”

“Apparently I still have a lot of work to do with you,” now his voice was heavy with warning. He drew back his other arm.

“NO!” Dean couldn’t shout, but all his being cried out in rebellion and negation. Michael, in mid-punch, eyes full of confident anger, blinked out of existence for a microsecond before returning, so fast Dean wasn’t even quite sure what he had seen.

Michael pulled his punch at the last moment, his fist hovering next to Dean’s cheekbone. The anger remained in his eyes, but the air of confidence was gone. He set Dean back down on his feet and straightened his coat on his shoulders, reminding Dean of a cat who’d been caught falling on his face and pretending he’d meant to do it that way all along.

“Fine. If it means so much to you, I will allow you to help your family chase down these missing angels, but I will have nothing to do with it. And you WILL retrieve the Seal from your brother…whatever it takes.”

Dean was confused. Something had just happened, but he had no idea what it was, just the vaguest of instincts that left him unsettled.

Michael interrupted his thoughts, holding out a hand. “Going once, going twice…”

Dean grabbed his hand.

~~~~~

Dean opened his eyes. Some time had obviously passed. The others had sat down across from him, watching and waiting. Sam had a worried look on his face, a bit like he felt he should be doing something, maybe getting ready to kill his brother. Cas was patiently stone faced.

“Good news, guys.” Dean gave them a small smile, his voice a rough rasp. “Michael says he’s in. Let’s go find us some angels.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, that was a bit of a hiatus. My next few updates may also be a bit delayed, but hopefully not as bad as this one was. Talking about this one...whoo boy! What an exposition dump. It was supposed to go on and actually, like you know, leave the bunker, but it was just getting too long. And I didn't want to leave it dangling on yet another cliff hanger.
> 
> Update (July 26th, 2019): Hi Everyone. Sorry it's taken so long to update this fic. Life has gotten really busy and I don't have much in the way of free time, like ever, these days. But I just wanted to promise, to you and myself, that this is NOT an abandoned fic! I have the whole thing planned out and am really looking forward to sharing my ending with you. So if you have enjoyed the previous chapters, please keep an eye out for updates (hopefully, fingers crossed, sometime before the new season starts). Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

Sam had been a hard no at first, but eventually Castiel had convinced him there weren’t any better options. If Cas had been able to locate the angels himself, he wouldn’t have needed Sam’s help. Sam could have put his tech people on it, combing through the web for any potential leads, but that would take days or weeks they couldn’t spare.

So, Dean and Michael it was. Great, but now Dean, for all that he had fought for it, didn’t really know what he was going to do to help. He closed his eyes and reached out to the archangel, lurking, spider-like, in the shadowy corners of his mind.

 _So…_ he began. _What’s the plan?_

A contemptuous snort was Michael’s only response.

_Don’t sulk, princess. How are we going to find these missing angels?_

_I seem to recall telling you that I would allow YOU to help your family and that I would not lower myself to serve as your family’s bloodhound._

_Look, you’re not going anywhere until I am done here. Faster I find them, the faster you can go piss in God’s Wheaties. At least get me pointed in the right direction…_

A sharp nudge of inquiry towards the archangel in the back of his brain got silence in response. Looked like Michael was going to keep to his word and not help.

 _Well, okay_ , thought Dean with a roll of his shoulders, _I can figure this out. Bloodhound…Michael was the commander of heaven’s host, the leader of all God’s angels. A general had to have a way to know where his troops were, right?_ Dean paused and listened intently within his mind, to see if any of this got a response, but the spider did not stir in his web again.

Dean opened his eyes. Sam looked at him expectantly. Cas, patiently.

“Alright, three angels coming right up,” Dean said with a confidence that he wasn’t feeling at all and closed his eyes again. Along with enhancement to his sight, hearing and other human senses, since being possessed by Michael, there had been a whole new set of sensations whispering at the edge of his conscious, only to disappear when he tried to focus on them. Instead he turned within. He could feel the incandescent fire that was Michael’s grace, lurking in the core of his being, shining but restrained for the moment. Meditating on that feeling of grace, Dean turned back outward, reaching for echoes of that light outside himself. He didn’t have to go far. Cas, standing near, was a bright sun. Dean could sense the grace within himself and that within Cas were connected by a sparking, glowing wire, like a continuously burning fuse. Dean reached for this bright connection between him and Cas, gave it a tug.

 _Dean?_ echoed back. Castiel’s true voice was the sound of starlight, of mountains growing, of gravity.  Dean turned away from the warm light of his friend and looked beyond. As with Cas, he could see other connections leading away from him. The closest and largest wasn’t so much a connection as the blackened severed stump that remained. The sight of it made Dean’s soul first ache with tearing loss, then bubble with simmering rage, as Michael’s feelings ricocheted through him.

 _God_ , came Michael’s terse explanation.

Not wanting to delve any deeper into that can of worms, Dean quickly moved on. He sensed more living wires similar to the connection with Cas, but they were pitifully few in number. Six, including Cas. Far more, beyond counting, lay cold and dead. Fuses that had long burned out. Dead angels. A hint of dull red caught Dean’s attention and he realized that some of the lines, though burnt, were different than the others. Three of them. They persisted for the moment as trails of redden embers, some fainter than others, all gradually dimming as he looked on. Dean suspected it wouldn’t be long before all that was left of them were trails of grey ash, just like the others.

Like trying to stuff the dinosaur sponge back inside a magic grow capsule, Dean eventually managed to shove his consciousness back into the confines of his own skull. His hazel green eyes opened and flicked over first to meet those of Sam, ever so briefly, before turning to meet those of Cas. A small apologetic twitch of his lips was all that was needed. Cas’ weakly hopeful expression crumpled into one of numb horror at the implication. He sat back with a heavy thud into the library chair behind him, eyes blank for a moment. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but just let out a small puff of breath, eyes still unfocused, and sank back against the wooden chair slats.

With a businesslike air, Sam took charge before Cas could slump any closer to the floor.

“Well…what happened to them?” he asked Dean in an expectant tone.

 “I don’t know exactly, but…” Dean paused for a moment and shook his head. Although Michael remained silent, the words rose unbidden in Dean’s mind. “…the threads of their grace have been removed from the warp and weft of the universe.”

“That’s what Michael says…Dean?” asked Sam, doubt creeping back into his eyes.

“Yeah, Sammy…basically.” Dean could see the doubt retreat a little, but not go away.

Cas had recovered slightly, pulling himself straighter, but his face was now grim. “If we lose any more angels, heaven is doomed.” His gravelly voice continued, “We are teetering on the brink as it is. We must find out what happened and make sure no more angels are in danger.”

Sam turned back to Dean, “Okay. You tell us where to find them and Cas and I will go check it out.”

“Hey now,” Dean protested. “I don’t know _exactly_ where they are. It’s not google maps up here,” pointing to his head. “But I can tell you which direction to go.” He closed his eyes and held up a finger, pointing towards the back wall of the library, then turning to point towards the wall nearest him, before turning again to point towards the crows’ nest. “Think of me as your very own angelic compass,” he grinned.

“No, Dean,” Sam was blunt and firm. “No way I’m gonna let a murderous archangel run around on the loose. Right now the bunker is the safest place for you.”

“Well, _I’m_ not murderous,” Dean insisted. “And there’s not much Michael can get up to with these pretty bracelets on my wrists, is there?”

“I hope so,” Sam grimaced, “but after all these years, we both know better, don’t we?”

“Not to toot my own horn, but if someone is running around killing angels, don’t you think it’d be a good idea to have to the third most powerful being in the universe in your corner?”

“But you’re not the third most powerful being in the universe, are you? You’re _Dean_ , right? Isn’t that the story?” His tone was heavy with sarcasm and Dean winced internally.

Dean sighed, “I am Dean. I swear, Sammy. Just with a few extra horsepower under the hood.”

“Yeah, sure. So says Dr. Jekyll…right up until Mr. Hyde pops out.”

“Sam,” Cas’ gruff voice cut in. Sam and he exchanged a long look. Dean could practically see the unspoken words pass between them. With a pang, he remembered when he was the only one who could do that. It was unwelcome reminder of two decades lost, when his little brother had learned to live without him.

With a quiet snort of breath and a frown, Sam relented. He turned back towards Dean. “Fine. You can come, but the cuffs are staying on.”

~~~~~

It was afternoon. They had just reached the eastern outskirts of Flagstaff, Arizona when they saw the gaggle of emergency vehicles pulled off on the side of the highway.

Sam glanced in the review mirror at Dean in the backseat, his eyebrows raised questioningly.

“No,” Dean after a moment of consideration. “That’s not us, but we’re close. Real close.”

They drove onward into town. After a few wrong turns and backtracks, they found themselves cruising slowly along a railroad frontage road. At the next stop sign, Dean gestured to turn left and leaned forward against the backs of the front seats.

“This is it, fellas. End of the yellow brick road,” Dean announced as their dark blue sedan turned away from the railroad tracks onto a street filled with low cinderblock buildings. The first driveway carried a nondescript green sign with almost unreadably small white letters likely intended discourage casual inspection, “Coconino County Medical Examiner”. The neighboring driveway cheerily announced the presence of a craft brewery, proclaiming “Tasting Room Now Open!”

“Who thought that was a good idea?” Dean heard Sam mutter, shaking his head bemusedly.

“Humans often imbibe alcohol to distract themselves from their own mortality, do they not?” Cas questioned solemnly. Dean and Sam exchanged a brief bemused glance through the rearview mirror, their shoulders twitching in synchronized shrugs. The angel spoke as if he was narrating stereo instructions, but that didn’t mean he was wrong.

Sam turned into the first driveway and pulled under the shade of a pine tree. With a push of a button, he turned off the vehicle’s electric engine. He stretched his long legs out the door and climbed out. Slightly encumbered by his cuffed hands, Dean also moved to exit the vehicle.

“Not so fast,” Sam stepped against the car’s rear door, blocking it from opening more than a few inches. “You’re staying in the car.”

“Hell I am.” Dean leaned back, and with both feet, kicked out squarely against the car door. The door jerked open, knocking Sam off balance, and allowing Dean the space to calmly exit the vehicle.

“I told you. Even with these things on,” he jangled the cuffs. “I’m useful.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to explain those?” Sam looked pointedly at his brother’s hands.

“Cas, give me your coat.” Cas frowned and reluctantly removed his rumpled trench coat. He handed it over to Dean, who then draped it over his cuffed hands, hiding them from sight.

“A man in a three-piece suit and an overcoat carrying another overcoat. On a warm day in Arizona. No, nothing strange about that at all.”

“Ye of little faith, Sam.” Sam huffed and stuck his hand into the pocket of his grey fed suit, pulling out a smartphone

“Just wait here a minute.” Sam waved Dean and Cas to stay with the car and wandered a few feet away. “Let me call Reggie and see if we can figure out exactly what we are walking into.”

As Sam wandered off under the shade of a neighboring pine tree, Dean leaned against the economical yet unsexy curves of the car hood, next to Cas. A sleek muscle car, it was not. Not for the first time on this trip, Dean missed the impala.

“So, Cas…” Dean hesitated, “Aside from the whole Heaven exploding thing, how’ve you been? Sam tells me you ditched earth.”

“Up until several days ago, I was quite well, Dean. I am sorry I could not be here for Sam, but I was doing important work, along with Jack.”

 “So…how’s the kid doing?”

“Jack? He is very studious. He takes the opportunity to be of service to Heaven very seriously.”

“Well, I hope you remind him that all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” Dean winked.

“Jack is no longer a boy, Dean. You have been gone twenty years and he has grown up…” Castiel replied seriously. ***

Dean couldn’t help but smile, “It’s good to see your again, buddy.”

“And you, Dean.” Cas’ smile in response was tiny but real.

~~~~~

The medical examiner looked up from her computer monitor at the knock on her door. Her salt and pepper (mostly salt these days) hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. With a brief grimace, she quickly reached to pull the wire rimmed reading glasses of her face. Her eyes had only recently begun to fail and her brain wasn’t used to the sudden, strange focal changes of glasses yet.

 _To be young and beautiful again,_ she thought, more amused than rueful. Only seconds after the first knock came another, this one followed by the disembodied head of her intern, poking through the doorway with an excited look on his pasty face.

“The FBI are here!” he announced in a loud, dramatic whisper, jerking his head behind him.

“Hallelujah!” Dr. Marnie MacRae sighed, stretching her arms above her head and snatching one last sip of cooling coffee before standing. “Maybe they can make heads or tails of all this. I’m just banging my head against the wall here.”

Dr. MacRae glanced down again briefly at the scientific article she had been tiredly scrolling through on her computer monitor: “Seven hundred seventy-eight bite marks: analysis by anatomic location, victim and biter demographics, type of crime, and legal disposition”. Strewn across her desk were various medical journals, their pages opened to articles on animal bite mark forensics, interspersed with numerous photos of high definition photos of corpses.

Kevin, the intern, was bouncing up and down on his toes as she approached, bubbling over with as yet untold information. Longish black hair cut in a sloppy shag dangled in his eyes above a long, pointed nose. Black skinny jeans and a Misfits t-shirt adorned his tall skinny form. Even bobbing with excitement, his slouching hunch was ever present. But thank goodness for small favors, at least he wasn’t wearing eyeliner today.

“And the sheriff called in just before they walked in.” He paused dramatically. “They’ve got another one. Not far off highway 40. White male, late twenties, early thirties. Same wound patterns. He says this one is fresh and they need you out there…” another theatrical pause, “ASAP.” Kevin was a good kid, but he had watched one too many police forensics shows.

“Jesus…okay. Do me a favor. I’ll handle the FBI. You get my kit together and put everything into the truck for me, okay? Thanks, Kev.”

With a jittery nod, her intern turned and scurried off down one hallway. Dr. MacRae ran her fingers lightly across her hair to find any wayward strands and tuck them behind her ears. Next she straightened her button-down shirt on her shoulders from where it had bunched up while she hunched over her desk. She glanced back consideringly at her desk. Perhaps the feds warranted putting on the dress shoes located in the lower right drawer? But she quickly decided against it. If they couldn’t handle her in Converse, they could take a flying leap.

Her sneakers made little sound as she strode down the empty hallways. A combination of several employee vacations and a horrendous late spring flu had emptied the place out and left her mostly alone to cope with the weirdest case she had seen in two decades on the job. As she approached, the visitors gradually came into view through the rectangular frame of the hallway. A tall, handsome man about her age in a dark suit. He more or less looked like she expected an FBI agent to look, if a little on the old side for field work. The other two…not so much. They were younger. One with squinty eyes wore a sloppy grey suit and tie. The troubled wrinkles on his brow matched the wrinkles in his cheap suit. The other was another good-looking man, clean-shaven with short brown hair (which made her reconsider her assessment of Guy #1 – since when did FBI agents sport long hair and beards?), but he was dressed in a three-piece suit tweed suit and matching overcoat. Incongruously, draped over his hands (which he held in front of him – who did that besides priests?) was yet another coat, a trench coat. She frowned. There was just something off about him, but as her eyes drifted higher, they met his, sparkling warmly above a soft friendly smile. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling back at him, before giving her head a little shake.

There was definitely something off about these guys. Dr. MacRae viciously pinched the bridge of her nose, but it did nothing against the headache brewing behind her eyes. Well what did she expect?  That the FBI would send the cream of the crop?  She was lucky they were here at all and if they actually managed to crack this son of bitch, she would give each of them a big fat hug.

Not one to mince words, her greeting as she entered the lobby didn’t bother with the niceties. “What are you guys, the basement dwellers they send out for the weird ones? Well, congratulations. I think I’ve got a good candidate for your X-Files.”

Tall Guy had started to turn around at the first sound of her voice, his hand half-raised holding what appeared to be a badge. As she spoke, he rocked back on his heels momentarily, looking a bit flummoxed. Squinty directed his squint toward her, but was otherwise unmoved. Coat Guy’s (on second thought, perhaps he should be Sexy Coat Guy) soft, charming smile grew even warmer, if that was possible.

Tall Guy was quick to recover, “Dr. MacRae? I’m Special Agent Kilmister of the FBI. These two gentlemen, Drs. Taylor and Clarke, are…specialists. I’ve asked them to consult on the case, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Good, good. More the merrier,” she responded breezily. She was so overwhelmed at this point, Santa and his elves could have shown up and she would have gladly enlisted their help, no questions asked. She held four thin file folders towards the towering agent. “You know some .of the basics already? Here are the case summaries.” She shoved the folders in his hands and spun on her heels. “The rest of the files are in the morgue with the bodies.” A jerk of her head.  “I’ll show you.” Not bothering to check if they were following, she started striding back down the hallway she had entered from.

“Yes, well,” Agent Kilmister’s long legs quickly caught up to her.  “You’ve got four victims, all sharing similar wound patterns and discovered in the wilderness to the east of the city. All the bodies show severe lacerations and tearing, as well as unusual contusion patterns.”

“That’s right. Two co-eds out for a hike, one local rock climber and one John Doe. Except it’s not four anymore. It’s five. Sheriff is at the latest crime scene right now.”

“Out on Highway 40? We saw them driving in.”

MacRae nodded. They walked through the swinging double doors into the morgue.

“So, which one do you want to see first?”

“John Doe,” The agent and Sexy Coat Guy answered in unison.

“Okay, John Doe it is then.” She swung open one of the numerous square freezer doors lining one wall and yanked out a tray containing a sheet draped form. “Discovered by some tourists out at Walnut Canyon National Monument. Although he was not found until later, we believe he was the first victim.”

She pulled back the sheet to reveal the still form of a small, brown-skinned man with short dark hair. Beyond that it was impossible to see much more in the way of identifying features…there just wasn’t that much left in one piece. The body was a mass of ragged lacerations, missing chunks and, strangely, lines of circular bruises.

Squinty (Taylor, Clarke, she wasn’t sure) jumped in, “Were there any markings discovered near the body? Dark wings, perhaps?”

“As in some sort of Satanic ritual thing?” She shook her head. “Nope. Look,” she hesitated a moment. “My honest opinion? Nearest I can guess, a shark and a giant squid are murdering their way through the Arizona backwoods. And since that opinion is a surefire ticket to early retirement, I’m glad you are here to tell me what actually did this to these people. And now, not to run out on you gentlemen, but the Sheriff is expecting me. I’ll leave you to it. Let Kevin at the front desk know when you’re done, okay?”

A brisk handshake for each of them and she and her Converse were striding briskly, soundlessly, out the door.

~~~~~

Sam skimmed through the file folders in his hands. “Four deaths…now five. Any chance these other victims were angels too?” He raised his eyes towards Dean.

“No,” Dean shook his head. “Just this one.” He gestured towards the lacerated remains on the tray before them.

“No wings…” Sam ruminated. He turned to Castiel. “What does that mean?”

“Destruction of angel grace always leaves behind a residue in the earthly plain. What you see as wings.” Cas’ omni-present frown deepened slightly. “This appears to be the remains of Paschar’s vessel. Are you sure Paschar was present in the vessel at the time of its death, Dean?” he asked, a slight tinge of hope in his rough voice.

“If the angel’s grace was just somewhere else, I’d know. It’s gone.” He gestured to the bruised, shredded form between them.  “Last known address…”

“What was Paschar even doing here? He would never disobey Naomi’s orders…” Cas put his two hands on the edge of the tray and leaned forward, searching, as if he could find the answers to his questions somewhere on the destroyed vessel.

“No angel blade did this, obviously,” Sam said thoughtfully, studying the corpse. “So, what could rip an envesseled angel to shreds?” Sam’s brow furrowed, “And what happened to the grace?”

Castiel shook his head worriedly, “I have never seen something that could do this to an angel. This is not part of God’s plan.” He turned to face Dean. “Do you swear, brother, that you had nothing to do with this?” he asked earnestly.

 _It was not me,_ Dean overheard Michael’s solemn reply to Castiel. Communicating this way, via angelic grace, there was no way to hide discordant vibrations of falsehood. But Michael’s grace remained a still, vibrant well of power.

To Dean alone, Michael continued, _Intriguing, is it not? Castiel is right, Dean. Whatever did this is not part of God’s plan, for this universe anyway. Does this not strike you as something…new?_ His tone dripped with smiling innuendo. Dean clenched his jaw, but something in Michael’s words provoked a distracting itch in his thoughts. Something familiar. Confusing flashes of woods, a girl in a dark hood holding a bone spear defensively in front of her, a sudden burning pain in this shoulder.

“Guys,” Dean spoke aloud. “Whatever did this is still out there, killing people. Which means we’ve got to take care of it…now…and I think I might know a way to find it.”

~~~~~

Dusk was falling as they pulled the car off the road and parked next to a beige SUV with the insignia of the sheriff’s office emblazoned on the side.

As the Winchesters approached, a uniformed officer held up an arm to block their advance. Sam whipped out his fake badge, ready to launch into the usual bullshit, when a female voice shouted from behind the rows of police tape and milling law enforcement personnel.

“Let ‘em through, Hank! They’re with me!”

Dr. MacRae was dressed in a white, hooded Tyvek suit, holding a camera and waving them over with wide scooping gestures of her free arm.

“Stay back until I finish cataloguing the scene, if you please, gentlemen.” Once she verified they weren’t going to trample her scene, she turned back to the ground and seemed to forget about them. Her feet, encased in disposable shoe covers, stepped mincingly around a sea of numbered evidence markers as she snapped photo after photo. Blood spatter, ripped flesh, shattered bone.. They could hear her muttering under her breath. “This isn’t my damn job! I hope the snorkeling in Maui is worth it, Becky…”

It was worse seeing it fresh at the scene as compared to the sterile morgue. Incongruously, the man’s lower legs, sporting a new pair of hiking boots, were untouched. Everything else was a nausea-inducing mess.

Dean stared, sightlessly, at the mangled body on the ground, a keen listening expression on his face. Sam and Cas watched him expectantly. Dean’s eyes came back into focus. He looked over at his companions, “Got it,” he said in a low undertone.

 _Bloodhound_ , Michael whispered contemptuously in his ear, but Dean ignored it. He flicked his eyes in the direction of some mid-distant hills. “That ‘a way.” Just like Michael had tracked Dark Kaia and her spear through the woods, Dean had caught the waves of strange energy, jarringly out-of-place with the rest of the universe, bleeding off of whatever foreign thing had turned this poor guy into spaghetti and meatballs.

Sam whipped out his trusty phone and opened a map of the surrounding area. “Hmm. Looks like it’s better to approach from the south. There’s a road and some trailheads that should get us pretty close. And avoid the cops.”

~~~~~~

Sam’s mouth twisted sourly at the sight illuminated by the beam of his flashlight. It was a nest, he thought. Tucked among the layered, yellow limestone rock, it had not been hard to find. The stench for one thing. And the obvious brown blood trails for another. Sam could see the remnants of hair and small bones. And some not so small bones. Sam guessed birds and coyotes. Was that a sheep? So this thing probably dragged back what it could, but had to leave humans where it found them. That would make it about the size of a Great Dane by Sam’s reckoning. When they finally found it, he could verify that hypothesis, but so far they had come up empty.

Cas was nearby, poking around the brush at the base of a rock chimney. Dean had wandered out of eyesight. Once he had led them here, he had complained that that whole area was too saturated with its “signature”, whatever that meant, for him to pinpoint it any closer.

Sam sighed and pulled out his phone. Based on the location of the bodies found, whatever this thing was, it had a pretty wide hunting territory. Maybe it was out in search of a snack. Sam snapped a few pictures of the nest, bright camera flashes of light illuminating the surrounding rocks. Might as well document what they could. If they had to come back tomorrow night, at least Sam and his team could try their best to identify what they were hunting in the meantime.

Sam slipped his phone back in his pocket and started to turn towards where he had last noticed Castiel.

Instead of the angel, he noticed something shaking the bushes. As it came into the clearing he saw it in the bright moonlight. It was repellent, an unholy mass of frantically whipping tentacles and angular multi-jointed legs. Crab-like it skittered over the rocks while above, slimy, muscular tentacles, each lined with a mass of sucking mouths, slithered and waved.  He could hear it now. Shrieking, hissing and moaning, it came, scuttling low over the ground, impossibly fast.

“Holy shit!” Sam had decades of experience facing every supernatural horror in this world, but this was something else. This thing wasn’t just supernatural, it was unnatural in a way that made his brain go numb, his balls retreat up into his groin and his voice creep up a few octaves. The shear, unspeakable wrongness of it, triggered every flight instinct in body. Unprepared for the speed at which it moved, Sam barely had time to bring his arms up in defense before he was overwhelmed and brought to the ground.

His long arms pushed against the central mass of the fetid thing, holding it and its snapping jaws away from him the best he could. But there was little he could do against the viciously thrashing tentacles. They whipped round, grasping and squeezing anything they came in contact with, Sam’s hair, his coat. It wasn’t long before the tiny needle-filled maws lining each powerful limb had eaten through the fabric of his suit and reached the skin underneath. Sam bellowed in pain.

~~~~~

The sound of Sam’s pain and fear spun Dean on his heels. Rock formations blocked his sight of his brother and the angel. Without thought Dean flew towards the cries scrambling over and around the boulders and loose scree. Leather-soled dress shoes slipped on the sloping limestone faces, cuffed hands restrained his reach and threw off his balance. Dean sent a mental snarl in Michael’s direction and vowed that first thing he did when they got out of here was changing out of this monkey suit and into some good old-fashioned denim.

Michael response was phlegmatic and relaxed, unperturbed by Dean’s fear and worry, _Hmmm, they are a bit impractical, I agree. But in my defense, when has an archangel ever needed to rock climb?_

Throwing Michael a mental middle finger, Dean continued to slip and skid his way over the boulders towards the sounds of his brother’s cries. Clearing the last of the rocks he came tumbling to a halt and quickly took stock before leaping into the fray.

Sam was on the ground, prone under a writhing mas of appendages, only his long thrashing legs still visible. Dean’s archangel-enhanced sight picked up Cas some yards further away. He looked to have been tossed to the side. Half his was face covered in blood, but otherwise the angel was fine for now (he hoped). Dean leaped towards his brother and the…thing…on top of him.

Sam was still struggling. That was a good sign. Dean reached into the whipping mass, trying to find some solid core to grasp. He kept his lips firmly clamped against any stray tentacles. He’d seen the movie Alien enough times to know you definitely did not let something looking like this anywhere near your mouth.

Dean met his brother’s eyes through the tangle of writhing appendages, the whites gleaming brightly all around the brown irises. Dean did his best to give him a reassuring smile (lips closed, of course), in spite of being regularly smacked in the head by numerous tentacles. Distracted by the pummeling he was receiving and the eardrum rupturing shrieks the creature was making, Dean did not notice how close his right hand was getting sucked towards the snapping beak-like mouth filled with rows upon rows of serrated, razor-sharp teeth. At the last moment he tried to jerk his hand away, but it was immobilized by a stubborn tentacle. The toothy jaws slammed shut on his fingers. Dean tensed, anticipating the next instant when his nerves delivered screams of pain up to his brain, but they never arrived. He looked on as the jaws closed mindlessly again and again on his hand, but instead of ripping through his flesh, the shark-like teeth shattered and broke. His hand remained unharmed.

“Ha!” Dean shouted triumphantly, forgetting to keep his mouth closed. “Archangel, bitch!”

Dean was no longer trying to pull his hands free. Instead he shoved both his hands, cuffed together, deep into the creature’s mouth. Grasping at either side of the carapace-like beak, he pulled, tearing the huge jaws completely free of the monstrous bulk. The hissing screeches grew to a painful pitch. Where the beak had been was now an oozing, tattered hole, shuddering and dripping with black gore.

Dean, feeling confident, attempted to step back to plan his next attack, but he was held fast, wrapped tightly by wet, squeezing arms.  And the gaping hole Dean had left in the creature suddenly split open, clawed limbs, misshapen and shiny with mucous, came reaching out towards the sky.

“Dean!” came Sam’s hoarse warning. Through the tangle, Dean could see Sam was still fighting back, trying to tear himself free. And Dean’s effective distraction appeared to have loosened the creature’s grip on his brother.

“Yeah, I see it!” This thing was like Hydra, cut one head off and two more took it’s place. He had to put an end to this thing.

“Okay, just like ripping of a band-aid!” he called to Sam. Dean slipped his bound hands up and over the creature until he had it in a bear hug. The maneuver brought his face right up into the slimy, quivering mass. The malformed claws turned down to grasp his head

 _Bleeeeeecccch_ , Dean thought, gagging in his once-again tightly closed mouth. Bracing his feet against the rocks on either side of Sam, Dean heaved up, pulling the creature off and away from his brother. Well, most of it. His brother lay limply on the ground still adorned with a number of wriggling tentacles, spraying black blood where they had detached from the monstrous organism.

 _Now what?_ Dean stood there, the creature writhing like a hundred angry cats in his arms. The thing couldn’t hurt him, but he didn’t have any weapons to kill it. He couldn’t tear it to pieces, that would just make it stronger. His eyes fell upon the rock boulders he had scrambled over in his race to reach Sam. Rock…hard place. Immovable object…unstoppable force.

Bug, meet windshield.

Feeling a little silly, Dean started running towards one particularly large rock with a large vertical face, standing alone amongst the scrub brush. He willed himself to pick up more and more speed with each step, pushing against the rocky ground. By the time he reached the rock, he was just a blur. He threw himself into the rock face, holding the wriggling monstrosity out to crush it between his body and the stone. The huge boulder was pulverized by the force of the collision, sending up a cloud of dust. Dean lost his balance, belly flopping onto the rubble. All that remained of the tentacle monster was a disgusting squishy feeling on Dean’s chest and stomach.

 _Well that was effective, if pathetically inelegant_ , Michael commented dryly. _Archangel, Dean. Not superhero. Don’t embarrass me or I’ll take back the reins_.

Dean raised himself up on his hands and knees, sticky strings of ichor still connecting him to the puddle of monstrous remains beneath him. _Go. Suck. An egg. Michael._

~~~~~

“We’ve got to make sure we destroy every limb, every single cell, if we can. We don’t want this thing growing back.” Sam approached Dean’s shoulder. He extricated a last tentacle from his hair and added it to the dripping pile.

“What we need is a damned flame thrower. If you hadn’t permanently benched Baby, we’d be roasting marshmallows over this son of a bitch already.” Lacking his beloved impala and the homemade flame thrower he had always kept tucked against the back-left corner of her trunk, Dean cast around for something to annihilate every last trace of the beast. Dirt, scrub brush, trees, rocks. Not great options. What else did they have but the lint and chewing gum in their pockets? Nothing. Except the car parked back at the trailhead…

Unlike Sam, Dean had never bothered to pay much attention in school, but he had spent many an evening watching online videos of people doing stupid, dangerous shit. “Sammy,” he asked contemplatively, “what kind of batteries does your fancy electric car use?”

The blood and grime had settled into the lines on Sam’s face, accentuating how much he had aged during Dean’s absence. But at the question, his eyes lit up and his lips blossomed into a wide, mischievous grin. It reminded Dean of the time Sammy, age 10, had first tried to make homemade napalm, forcing them to flee their motel room before the fire department arrived.

Sam nodded affirmative. “Yeah, that’ll do it alright. You keep an eye on that mess and make sure nothing crawls away. I’ll be back with the car. We’re gonna need it running for this to work.”

~~~~~

Sam didn’t have too much trouble off-roading the EV back to Dean and Cas. And who cared about dents and scratches when you were planning on blowing the whole thing up?

While Cas kept watch on the slimy stain of tentacles on the ground, Dean and Sam got to work rewiring the bank of lithium batteries in the car’s trunk and stripping the trunk of as much impact protection as they could. When it was ready to go, Sam got back in the driver’s seat, turned the car on and repositioned it so that trunk hung over the smeared remains of the creature. Grabbing his duffel from the back seat, Sam hopped out, leaving the engine running. Cas, not taking any chances, was still watching the smear like a hawk, now lying on his stomach to see around the car chassis.

“Okay, we’re good to go. You’re on, Dean.”

While Sam had been moving the car, Dean had picked himself a large heavy rock, about the size of a pony. Sam wasn’t exactly sure how he had managed it with hands cuffed together, but his brother now stood holding the boulder above his head. It gave Sam pause to see what Dean (and therefore Michael) was capable of even with the cuffs. If Dean still had enough archangel juice to destroy that…thing and bench press boulders, who knew what Michael still had up his sleeve? He might be taking a back seat for the moment, but Sam had little doubt that he was there, silently scheming, behind Dean’s eyes. It only a matter of time before he sprung his plans on all of them. Watching his brother, Sam reassured himself by giving his duffel a little jiggle, feeling the weight of its contents.

Dean, holding the rock over his head, looked back at Sam and Cas. “Uh… You guys gonna take cover?” Sam ducked behind the nearest boulder, dragging Cas with him. The angel probably would have been fine, but who knew with Cas these days.

“Fire in the hole!” Dean announced, face half turned away, squinting his eyes protectively, as if that would do any good. With a speed that Sam’s eyes couldn’t follow, Dean slammed the large rock down onto the rack of car batteries. The inhumanly strong force of Dean’s strike broke the back axel of the car and drove the trunk, batteries and rock down onto the rocky ground with a great crash. A great cloud of thick, white smoke billowed out of the batteries, engulfing Dean and the car. For one second, Sam thought that was it and they were screwed. But one second later, the whole scene burst into bright orange ball of flame.

“Dean! Dean! You okay?” Sam jumped out from behind his shelter as soon the explosion died down. The car had been blown sideways, a blackened skeleton now, the upholstery and tires still licked by flickering flames. The acrid stench of burnt rubber and plastic filled the air. The surrounding ground was scorched black. Nothing remained of the creature but charred ash. Dean was still on his feet, unmoved by the blast, and poked at the remains with the tip of a well singed leather shoe, rubbing the greasy ash into the rock.

“I don’t think we have to worry about any baby tentacle monsters terrorizing the campers.” Dean, looking like Wiley Coyote after a run in with some Acme TNT, held out his still-cuffed hands in front of him, surveying the smoking, ripped remains of Michael’s suit. The clothes were beyond rescue, but otherwise, he looked okay. A tiny voice inside Sam whispered, _Good thing for archangels,_ before Sam savagely crushed it back into silence. There was nothing good about Michael stealing Dean, nothing, even if he seemed to have given him back…for now.

Their improvised vehicular incendiary device had worked like a charm, but left them stranded in the wilderness. A couple of hours walk and a striking peach-toned sunrise later, they reached a truck stop along highway 40.

Dean, still looking conspicuously blown up, took a quick survey of the parking lot and walked up to a black, dust-covered sedan parked discretely behind some dumpsters. But as they got closer, there was no handle on the door, only a small biometric sensor pad.

“Uh…maybe not this one, huh?” Dean looked around at the other limited options for vehicular theft in the mostly empty parking lot.

But Sam’s response was smugly confident. “Relax, Dean.” He pulled out the smartphone that had miraculously survived the alien onslaught and gave it a little shake. To Dean and Cas, “You guys get cleaned up. I’ve got this…”

~~~~~

Dean leaned his hands on the truck stop bathroom sink and took stock in the mirror. His face and hair were completely covered in black soot. The charred tweed suit, well shredded, now resided in the trash can behind him. His new attire had been sourced from the truck stop’s surprisingly well stocked convenient mart. He now wore a tank top reading “WTF. Welcome To Flagstaff”. He’d had to open the thing up at the seams and re-attach them with a bunch of safety pins to get around his handcuffs (not an easy feat with his hands bound together). His new ensemble was completed by a pair of rainbow board shorts and some of those strappy sandals favored by well-off outdoorsy types. Dean grinned. He felt like a jackass, but it was worth it to feel Michael’s seething embarrassment bubbling in his gut. Washing the worst of the soot off his face, he exited the restroom and headed towards the automatic glass doors of the shop. Ignoring the open stare of the cashier, he paused to finger a pair of neon green reflective wrap around sunglasses on the rack next to the cash register, a wicked little half smile playing across his lips.

 _Don’t even think about it!_ If Michael had teeth at the moment, they would have been tightly clenched.

Dean’s half smile broke open into a full, sunny grin. Yep, definitely worth it.  He reluctantly decided against further accessorizing. With a flirty wink and a finger gun to the young man behind the counter, handcuffs glinting with reflected red light from the flashing “Play Lotto Here!” sign above, Dean whistled to Cas, and casually sauntered into the warming, morning air.

Cas, belatedly, looked up from his contemplation of the ingredient list on the back of a bag of Jalapeno Cheddar Ranch Corn Nuts. “Okay, er…Prisoner. Back to the, uh, squad car you go.”  He spoke directly to the cashier, since Dean was already halfway out the door. With a final squinty nod meant to project policelike authority, Cas spun on his heels and hurriedly stomped after Dean.

Sam was already seated, driver side door hanging open, inside their newly commandeered vehicle when the two walked up.

Sam greeted Dean with a grin. “Internet of things…what was Silicon Valley thinking?”. Dean responded by throwing a packet of baby wipes in Sam’s face.

“Here. Why don’t you wipe that smug ass grin, and all that dried blood, off your face.”

But Sam smiled on, undeterred. He pulled his door shut and adjusted the mirrors as his brother and the angel climbed into the wrapper littered back seat.

“And here I thought I was getting too old for this,” Sam said with a smile. With a tire squealing acceleration and a quick jerk of the steering wheel, he sped the car out of the lot and back in the direction of home.

Seated next to Cas, Dean stared fixedly at his brother’s forehead in the rearview mirror. If he had seen it, Sam would’ve assumed Dean’s scowl was due to Sam one-uping him stealing the car. But Dean had already forgotten about the car. He was thinking about Michael’s earlier words. If not God’s plan…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, that took a long time! But I made it in just under the wire of my totally arbitrary deadline. I hope that everyone watching this season enjoys tonight's premier. It's been months since I watched the show and I really feel like I've lost any feel for character voice that I may have once had. Sorry about that. I'll do some homework and try to improve that next chapter.
> 
> Speaking of the next chapter. It might be awhile for that one too (sorry!). So I thought I'd give you a little preview to hold you over (or drive you nuts). Next time: The boys discuss the implications of their recent hunt. (This chapter was getting sooo long, I just couldn't fit it in here.) Dean confronts Sam with his suspicions. Rowena shows up, ostensibly to watch Sam's back, but the timing starts to appear awfully convenient as the boys uncover more of the angel mystery.
> 
> *** Yes, yes. Castiel knows pop culture now, but a pox on whatever writer decided to do that. It used to crack me up and I was so bummed when they did it. So, screw character development, Castiel will forever remain pop culture clueless for me.
> 
> Edit: I forgot to give credit! The creature is basically just a blatant rip off of John Carpenter's The Thing. I thought about doing my own spin on it, but how could I improve on perfection?
> 
> Edit#2: So archangel power with the cuffs. I took the tack that they mostly inhibit powers that affect the outside world, but they don't completely shutdown some more "internal" basic stuff. So, still indestructible and some basic psychicy stuff (which the show established when Michael called his monsters in Nihilism).

**Author's Note:**

> This story isn't so much based on a prompt as a joke made by some lovely guys over at the Previously.TV SPN forum. But I wanted someone to actually write the damn thing so I could read it! I am definitely no writer, but if not me, then who? Since I'm really new to this, if anyone reads it and wants to leave me some feedback (good, bad, whatever, tell me you hated it) I will be forever grateful.


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